Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall
by ArchPsion
Summary: The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what was attempted long ago. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.
1. Prologue: For the Watch

**Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall**

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what was attempted long ago. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

If you wish to understand why I had to type this: blame several days of binge playing Shadow of War in my downtime. I will be utilizing a mixture of material from both the show (for familiarity) and the books (for faithfulness to the source material). Although I haven't read the latter I've read countless pages devoted to detailing events within them, and I will draw certain themes, aspects and ideas from them where I feel it would benefit this story.

Xxx

 **Prologue: For the Watch**

"Olly-"

A cold breath was expelled from Lord-Commander Jon Snow's chest as the knife slid between his ribs, striking true where the others had just barely missed their mark. Were he not the one to have received the blade's kiss he would have found it almost, perhaps morbidly, amusing that it would be the young boy standing before him, tears welling in his eyes, to break his heart both figuratively and literally.

"For the watch." Olly declared, tugging his arm back and taking his place among the other cloaked figures surrounding Jon, staring down at him in a silent mixture of remorse and resolve.

Jon felt his lips move, but there was little if any breath left in him to form words. He could only stare, stare into Olly's furious eyes. When Jon saw the boy's expression falter he suspected that he had succeeded in at least mouthing his message.

 _Why?_

He knew why. He had just made the mistake in believing others would follow him, however begrudgingly. Was that not what brothers did for one another?

 _These aren't my brothers…Robb…oh Robb…I shouldn't have left…_

What would happen next? The White Walkers marched against them. The Dead marched against them and these traitors would focus on fighting the Free Folk! He had to breathe, he had to live, to rise…to fight…

 _Ygritte…you were right…_

He'd taken Olly in when he lost everything. Trained him, loved him like one of his own brothers- the real ones, in Winterfell, not these…shadows…where were the torches? He felt the snow compressed beneath his back, saw the distant glimmer of stars overhead…then nothing.

 _So dark…so cold…_

 _No…light…_

"You are barred from death."

Jon opened his eyes and saw nothing. He was standing in some void, vast and incomprehensible in scope, filled with chaotic, incoherent masses that shifted in and out of perception. Trying to perceive anything was like trying to see through turbulent waters while submerged, and yet…something stood constant in the heart of the storm. Something bright, almost blinding.

He tried to draw breath, but couldn't feel the familiar rise of his chest, nor the hungered ache of his lungs. Gloved hands padded around his chest, tracing the fresh stab wounds which he had incurred. It was during this reflexive moment that Jon noted the absence of something else.

His heart did not beat.

"Where…" It felt strange, to say the least, being unable to draw breath and yet speak perfectly as if all was normal. "…am I?"

"Trapped between two states." The bright thing said. "Suspended in the thin void between the worlds of the living and dead. It is as I said: you are barred from death…Jon Snow."

Jon raised his hands up to examine them and curled his fingers into fists before relaxing them, almost like a child exercising their motor skills for the first time. What should have felt normal to him now seemed alien. His body no longer felt as it used to. It felt…lighter in some ways, heavier in others. He struggled to even understand or process everything that was happening.

"How?"

The bright thing moved closer, spreading the pool of radiance it cast to encompass where Jon stood, clearing away the chaotic not-winds of the unearthly void.

"That remains a mystery, even to me." It said. "Perhaps we might aid one another in that regard, and more."

"Aid?" Jon shook his head. "No, I'm…I was stabbed in the heart. I can't be alive. I can't help you." He was reciting those fours words more to himself than the entity before him. "I can't…"

"You aren't alive, nor are you dead." Its tone became heavier, reflecting thinning patience. "We are one now, Jon Snow. We are bound within this world. Together. The sooner that you accept this to be fact, the sooner you might look towards what comes next."

The not-winds dissolved around them, leaving the void peaceful and still. Jon could see a man standing before him, wreathed in green light that framed a bearded jawline, long faced features beneath mottled skin, piercing bright eyes, a jagged crown and matted furs adorned with scaled plates mixed with what looked like bone fragments and fangs added directly into the attire. At his belt hung a hammer with a handle made of large, twisting branches of wood and a head with a protruding spike in the side. The man before him was not much unlike one of the Free Folk in appearance…in fact his face contained in it features that Jon remembered all too well.

He'd seen them in his father. He saw them in every mirror and pool of water.

"Who are you?" Jon demanded. "Why am I here? If what you say is true, why am I not _dead_?!"

He could have seen father again. Robb…maybe Arya if fortune hadn't favoured her. And most of all: his mother. He might have finally known…

"I…" The man hesitated, casting his spectral eyes downwards. "I cannot recall. I know things, I remember places…faces…battles…I remember this wall when it was first being built." He swept one arm up, and behind him Jon could see the Wall jutting up high, illuminated only by the stranger's own luminescence. "I remember the magic that was embedded into the very ice it was built from…and I remember that only a rare few possessed the power that could force a soul to refrain from following its natural course and passing on. Our predicament may not entirely be one of chance, but there is no reversing it as we are now."

Jon heard the echo of a howl in the distance. He scanned the darkness and found that his vision was adjusting to the seemingly impenetrable veil that surrounded himself and the stranger. The howls came from the pen.

"Ghost!" Jon scrambled towards the wooden door where the howls fell silent, but found that his hands melted through the latch as he attempted to grasp it.

"Give it time, Jon Snow." The stranger said soothingly, approaching from behind. "You are freshly dispatched. Your soul needs but a short respite before it returns to the flesh."

Jon didn't understand, nor did he try to. He pressed one hand through the door experimentally before stepping through. Ghost recoiled away from the door and bared his teeth, yet not a sound came from the albino Direwolf, who quickly closed his mouth and relaxed as he recognized who stood before him.

"You can see me, boy?" Jon dropped down onto one knee and held out a hand which Ghost sniffed at before passing his muzzle through it.

"You both might be of different skins, yet your bond cannot be denied." The stranger remarked. "The blood of the Winter Kings flows in you. The Childrens' Gift flows with it."

 _Gift? The Children?_

In all of the stories from Old Na, Jon could not recall anything even vaguely close to a 'gift' from the fabled Children of the Forest.

"You seem puzzled." The stranger stared at him inquisitively. "Know you not of your own birth right?"

This would have once caused Jon to fume and brood.

 _Wear it like armour…_

"I have no birth right." He declared, his tone flat and expression statuesque. "I'm a bastard."

"I don't speak of petulant titles and lands, boy!" The stranger barked. "I speak of that which is passed down from parent to child. The gift of life, the bond between souls as it was taught by the Children! How could a scion of the Winter Kings not know?!"

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Ygritte's words drifted to him from the dark in all directions. Snow padded up to his side and stared pointedly at the stranger, flashing a hint of his fangs.

"Well how could someone forget their own name and yet claim to know so much?" Jon demanded defensively. "If you know what this gift is then stop wasting time and tell me or _leave it be_!"

The stranger deflated, shutting his eyes for several silent moments. "The gift…is what you know as Warging. The Children, the Greenseers…they learnt it from their gods and so too taught us, though only a rare few could master it beyond the pale shadow I see in what few fragments of your recollection are open to me. Whether it was a reward or part of an exchange I cannot recall, only that they taught it and intended for it to remain bound to the bloodline of the Magnar of Stark."

 _Magnar?_ Jon racked his brain and recalled the Thenns. _Old Tongue for Lord._

"Wargs were just a story for me." Jon admitted, feeling his mouth twitch upwards into a humourless smile. "So were White Walkers and Wights…and now I'm apparently dead but _not dead_ and speaking to someone who saw the Wall before it was finished. So why not throw being a Warg on top of that?"

"The world rarely cares for how fast it changes around us. I was born in darkness, and after living in it my entire life light flooded back in so quickly, without care for how any felt." The stranger conceded. "We both have many questions, Jon Snow. We can argue and infuriate one another as we have done already, or we might work to find answers."

The spectral man extended one arm.

"Help me find them." He said. "And I shall help you in taking your revenge."

The stab mark over Jon's heart ached.

"Not revenge." Jon insisted. "Justice."

"Which includes punishing those that killed you." The stranger replied stonily. "Amusing how the two seem so indistinguishable. Have we an accord, either way?"

Jon felt himself becoming heavier, like he was wearing full plate armour and beginning to sink into thick mud. "Something…is happening!"

"The flesh beckons." The stranger sighed irritably. "My offer stands, Jon Snow. Think on it until we next speak."

Darkness closed in once again…

Jon opened his eyes and saw the canopy stars overhead.

 _You are barred from death…_

Xxx

End of Chapter


	2. Chapter One: My Watch Has Ended

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

A small request, from author to readers: if you happen to notice any mistakes that I've made in typing these chapters. Please: tell me. I'd prefer it if you did so without being a tyrannosaurus dick about it, as some people are prone to do when pointing out spelling and punctuation errors.

Just point it out in a review, ideally after providing some constructive criticism and/or expressing your opinion.

On a further note, there were parts of the HBO show I simply did not like and refuse to incorporate into this. I will list the changes I intend to implement right here, both for your sake and so that I can better maintain some consistency. I will implement some features from the book, others I will leave out based on preference. I apologize if this decision ruins the experience for anyone but bear in mind that this is a non-canon story crossed over with a non-canon video game series, so it really shouldn't be a surprise that I'd take advantage of having a high flexibility when it comes to these decisions.

Anyways, here we go.

 _Princess Shireen and Queen Selyse remained at Castle Black while Stannis marched south, taking Jon's advice to recruit the Mountain Clans for support while establishing supply lines from East-Watch-by-the-Sea. The experience of the Mountain Clans in foraging and travelling during winter greatly benefited the Baratheon Army, allowing it to travel in spite of increased snowfall with only a few hundred casualties among the sellswords and southron born warriors._

 _Mance Rayder, as in the books, was not executed but sent south while Rattleshirt was burned in his place using a glamour by Melisandre, given the task of rescuing Sansa from the Boltons while Stannis rallies support from the other Northern houses. He failed and is currently held prisoner by the Boltons._

 _Alys Karstark arrived seeking sanctuary, and her uncle Cregan Karstark was taken prisoner upon arriving to claim her. Since then she has been Jon Snow's honoured guest alongside the Baratheon Queen and Princes while Cregan's men have been permitted to leave._

 _Stannis sent Ser Davos back to Castle Black with Melisandre to collect Cregan Karstark as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light, immediately rejecting the very notion of sacrificing his own daughter._

 _Jon consented to this when Stannis sent over fifty prisoners from House Karstark to take the Black as well as a proclamation declaring Alys the Lady of Karhold and denouncing her great uncle Arnolf as an usurper to her rightful claim. Cregan was burnt alive a short distance south of Castle Black, as Jon refused to host a second burning even to reinforce the Night's Watch._

 _Jon went to Hardhome where the events of the show played out, with fifty thousand Free Folk (I took creative liberties with that number) who rallied there being attacked in force by the White Walkers and barely five thousand escaping south of the wall, joined by several (two thousand at the most) more taken prisoner by Stannis only to be released by Jon and put under the command of Tormund Giantsbane. Since then several thousand more (a further three or four thousand) as well as several dozen (approximately eighty) Giants have passed through the Wall at Jon's command, bringing with them mammoths and following Wun-Wun as the new King of Giants._

 _Stannis has rallied his forces around Last Hearth and Karhold, the former pledging to him under Greatjon Umber and the latter falling to him after Arnolf Karstark took his forces to join with Roose Bolton's army at the Dreadfort while Houses Dustin and Ryswell send their forces to fortify Winterfell. A stalemate exists between the armies of Roose Bolton and Stannis Baratheon, the latter of whom has withheld the fact that Free Folk now occupy the Gift by his and Jon Snow's command so as to consolidate his power before Greatjon is made aware of this while the former is not yet informed due to Jon ordering that no ravens fly until the Free Folk have regrouped enough to reinforce the Wall and all of its castles. The Lord-Commander took precautions to set brothers loyal to him (and who had followed him to Hardhome where they witnessed the slaughter and subsequent reanimation of its populace) at all three manned castles in charge of guarding the rookeries, later augmenting them with Free Folk, donated by Tormund, who could be trusted not to instigate any fights yet also keep up their guard in case of treachery._

 _Rickon Stark is rumoured to be alive on the isle of Skagos, a fact which Stannis shared with Davos along with orders to link up with his navy at East-Watch-by-the-Sea once Jon Snow had finished using it and take as many men as he can muster to meet with the Lords of Skagos to secure their fealty and recover Rickon (if he lives) so as to grant Stannis a legitimate son of Ned Stark to elevate to Warden of the North and use as a rallying beacon._

 _Jon Snow was preparing to seek out other pockets of survivors from Mance's army to bring south when he is drawn into Alliser Thorne's ambush and stabbed to death._

Xxx

 **Chapter One: My Watch Has Ended**

Jon sharply drew in breath and gagged, finding his lungs starved and struggling to function. His spine arched as one of his boots scraped through the snow and mud beneath him. In the border of his perception he could make out the sound of hurried foot steps; the thud of boots against wooden boards close by transferring to the crunch of snow as someone raced across the main yard towards him.

"Gods…" The person gasped. "Lord-Commander!"

 _Edd!_

There were more figures emerging from the surrounding ramshackle structures of Castle Black, Brothers all of them, truer than the ones who'd left him to bleed out. Jon succeeded in drawing in a full breath as Edd Tollett and another lifted him up, each taking one of his arms around their shoulders.

"We have to get him inside!"

"Get him up!"

Jon's feet found purchase against the ground, granting him the leverage to push free and stand on his own. "I'm fine!" The words cleared his mouth before he could ponder the wisdom in issuing them.

He was unharmed…and yet he had several clearly visible stab wounds in his torso. His leather jerkin was stained with blood, as was the snow where he'd been laying.

"You're not!" Edd clung to his forearm. "Jon, you've been stabbed!"

 _As if I needed to be reminded._

Jon consented to let them guide him to the second floor storage room overlooking the yard, though only after they needed his command to release Ghost and fetch Longclaw. Edd had him sit on a cleared table to have his wounds examined while several loyalists were dispatched to retrieve Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen from their quarters, bringing an escort of ten Baratheon knights with them to bolster the handful of loyal brothers.

"Lord-Commander!" Queen Selyse bellowed as she stormed in, two of her guards keeping pace. "What is going on? Why have we been-"

She stopped so abruptly that Princess Shireen, who had hurried after her, ran into the Queen and stumbled before she was caught and steadied by Ser Davos.

"Ser Onion Knight!" The Princess smiled at the sight of her father's advisor, only to falter as she followed her mother's gaze.

Jon Snow was sitting atop a long table, naked from the waist up and with his signature dour expression as he was checked over by Alys Karstark who, while lacking any training that could be found at the Citadel, had experience in the treatment of simple wounds.

And the Lord-Commander had several of them scattered across his bare chest, the most prominent laying over his heart.

"Your Grace." He greeted Selyse with a small nod. "Forgive me for having you pulled from your chambers this late, but it appears that Castle Black is now in the midst of a mutiny."

Shireen mulled over the term, recalling it from past conversations with Ser Davos or from overhearing its used between other adults, including her father. It was often used in a way that made it sound comparable to 'treason', another reoccurring phrase that had become popular among the Baratheons of Dragonstone. Ser Davos used it when referring to members of his crew attempting to defy him or take over his ship during his days as a smuggler.

"Someone is trying to take over your castle, Lord Snow?" She asked, and was hushed by her mother.

A ghost of a smile crossed Jon Snow's face. "Indeed, my lady. Ser Alliser and several of his fellow conspirators ambushed me not long ago."

"Most fortunate that they either couldn't aim or cut deep enough." Ser Davos stared sceptically at the scar over Jon's heart. "As well that you have healed so quickly. Your man there is to be commended."

The smile dissolved.

"I'm afraid that is something I'll have to address after this has been dealt with, Ser Davos." Jon pushed himself off of the table in spite of protests from Alys. "For now, my concern is keeping Her Grace and her daughter safe. Ser Alliser thinks me dead, which gives us a short time to act before it becomes impossible for you to leave here freely."

"But surely this man wouldn't seek to harm us?" Selyse asked. "The Night's Watch takes no part in the affairs of the Realm!"

"Ideally." Jon agreed. "But I'll take no chance that they might choose to interpret their vows in a way that might justify aiding the Boltons. I've been betrayed tonight because I allowed the Free Folk through the wall, and your Lord Husband blessed that act which may make him an enemy of the Watch in Thorne's eyes and therefore make the Boltons potential allies. I am not experienced in the politics of the south your Grace, but the concept of taking hostages as a show of fealty does not escape me. You must ride with all haste for East-Watch where King Stannis' fleet is moored."

He glanced towards Alys as she handed him his tunic. "You must go too, Lady Alys. You've sworn to King Stannis. You're as just as valuable a hostage to them now."

The Lady of Karhold shook her head. "When I came here, you could have sent me away with my uncle and none would have condemned you for it, not even the King. We all know your vows, I knew I was taking a risk. And yet instead you protected me." She smiled and averted her eyes as he clothed himself. "I won't abandon you to fight this alone, Lord-Commander."

"You won't be." Jon shook his head, donning his leather jerkin next. "I only said that you must go too. I didn't say where. Tollett?"

"Aye." Edd stepped forward from a dimly illuminated corner of the room where he'd been silently watching the exchange next to the slumbering, silent form of Ghost.

"I need you to take Lady Alys and ride to the nearest Free Folk encampment." Jon finished reapplying his clothes, torn and blood stained as they were. "Tell Tormund of our plight and ask for reinforcements just in case I fail. Lady Alys, I recall that you had struck an agreement with the newest Magnar of the Thenns in return for his aid in putting your lands to rights."

Alys grimaced, remembering the arrangement all too well. "I did, Lord-Commander." She admitted, speaking barely above a whisper as she gave a slight nod.

"Now might be the best time to carry out that deal." Jon gave her a meaningful glance. "Above all else, you must make sure to act as though I am dead. Thorne will need time to consolidate power and convince the rest of the Watch to go along with his plan."

"They'd follow and oath breaker who put his knife into his Lord-Commander's-" Davos hesitated. "-chest?"

"Not all, but maybe enough." Jon shook his head. "It's like you told me: many of them love me, many of them don't. I knew I wouldn't make them happy by bringing the Free Folk past the wall, I only deluded myself into thinking they would stick to their vows above all else."

Queen Selyse spoke up. "Then there is nothing else to be discussed." She looked to one of the knights by her side. "Tell the men we ride for East-Watch immediately."

"Yes, your Grace." The knight nodded stiffly and hurried out.

"What will you do while we're gone?" Edd asked. "Please tell me you won't do something honourable and stupid. The last one almost cost you your life."

 _It really did cost me my life._

"For all I know, Thorne may have other conspirators who weren't present." Jon answered. "I'll wait until I know who can be held accountable for this treachery. And then hopefully you'll already be back with an army behind you. Between your numbers and the exaggerated nature of my death we can end this."

"Hopefully." Edd gave a half-smile. "Hopefully for the first time in its history, this fucking castle-" he ignored Selyse's scandalized gasp. "-will be conquered by Wildlings."

"Get going, Tollett." Jon motioned with his head towards the door. "Ride fast."

"Try not to die for real while I'm gone." Edd replied. "Lady Alys?"

"May the Gods protect you, Lord-Commander." Alys said and followed Edd out.

"We'd best go too." Ser Davos took Shireen's hand. "Princess? Your Grace?"

They followed the Onion Knight out, and Jon dismissed the sworn brother who had been standing guard by the door. Now that he was alone Jon allowed himself to collapse into a chair that had been dragged in and groan.

The Bright Stranger appeared by his side. "You handled that well."

"As well as anyone can handle speaking another's words." Jon replied. "I never did care for subterfuge."

"That was one of your failings." The Bright Stranger chided, crossing his fur and leather clad arms and fixing him with a stern glare that reminded him too much of his father. "Winter is coming, and it cares not for honour or chivalry. If what I've collected from your memories is accurate both your father and brother failed to realize this."

"Then I should become like the Lannisters?" Jon demanded, keeping his voice low in case anyone somehow silent enough to avoid being heard by Ghost was listening at the door. "Abandon honour? Abandon common decency?"

"I would have you consider the consequences of trusting everyone else to share your sense of honour." The Bright Stranger replied coolly. "Do you imagine that the Kings of Winter were honourable? That they forged a kingdom spanning from the Wall to the swamps of the Neck without shedding innocent blood or being ruthless to the point of discarding honour and mercy?"

That…was a point in the Stranger's favour. Jon recalled his lessons on the vague annals of history covering the age when House Stark had spread its rule across the North, conquering one petty kingdom after another, including the Red Kings of the Dreadfort, the Boltons.

Then there was the Greystark Rebellion and the subsequent annihilation of the entire house, which was only one of many rebellions put down up until Aegon's Conquest when the Seven Kingdoms had entered a period where rebellions and major wars became relatively far and few between compared to the days where seven or more thrones contended for power. The Starks had treated their vassals fairly as far as monarchs went, but nor had they spared any but the most powerful of their vassals, the Boltons, for rebelling against them. Even then the Boltons had suffered the loss of lands and wealth with each failed uprising.

How ironic that Tywin Lannister was feared for wiping out two minor houses, while the Starks of old had wiped out countless dynasties to secure their control over the North only to be loved?

With all of that in mind, Jon could only wonder how they'd lost it all in the span of a single generation.

The Bright Stranger must have seen the answer to his question in Jon's expression. "Our first task is to bring down this…Alliser Thorne and his fellow mutineers. They're so blinded by their hatred for what lays in front of them that they would ignore the true threat that lays beyond. They must die."

"I know."

"And you also know that you cannot remain with the Watch."

Jon's hand clenched against the edge of the table, which splintered under his grip before he pulled back in shock, staring at his gloved hands which had wooden splinters sticking out of the fabric. He carefully slid the gloves off and examined his palms and fingers for damage.

"I swore a vow." He muttered.

"Night gathers and now my watch begins." The Bright Stranger recited. "It shall not end until my death. You died, Jon Snow, however briefly. Hence, your watch has ended."

Jon imagined that the vow had never been established with the possibility of returning to life being taken into account.

"Even if I agreed to leave, as far as anyone else is aware I have survived my wounds." He reminded the Stranger. "In their eyes, my vow remains intact and is still upheld."

"Then simply consult the Augur!" They demanded, and held Jon's puzzled gaze for barely a moment before groaning in exasperation. "You don't know what I speak of."

"What is this Augur?" Jon asked.

"The Augur of Night is that which was used to verify that a vow to the Night's Watch was given sincerely." The Stranger explained. "Any who gave it with intention of violating it were struck down. Any suspected of treachery were forced to speak the vow before it to prove their innocence. Back before the Wall became a glorified penal colony for your southron kings it was held in high regard, as was the Watch, and all highly regarded orders have their enemies."

Then the vow had not merely been crafted as a rite of initiation then, but as a means of rooting out spies and traitors.

"There's been no mention of an Augur ever since I came here." Jon said. "Where would this Augur be?"

"At the seat of the Lord-Commander…" The Bright Stranger glanced around. "…which certainly isn't this ramshackle keep."

 _The Night Fort!_

"The first castle built on the Wall was the Night Fort. Would it be there?" Jon pressed.

"If the Watch has not somehow managed to lose it, yes." The Stranger nodded. "How far along the Wall are we away from there?"

From Jon's recollection of maps depicting the layout of the Wall, while Castle Black had been built almost perfectly in the middle of its length the Night Fort had been constructed some distance westward, no more than fifteen leagues at the worst, though he hadn't troubled himself with establishing the exact distance. His primary concern in the area of re-occupying the forts along the Wall had been Greyguard, an endeavour put on halt after Janos Slynt had stubbornly refused to go, forcing Jon to hold off until he could designate a suitable commander.

Not that Slynt would have even fitted the position. If anything Jon had been just trying to send him off to somewhere that he couldn't do any harm from. When that had failed, the headsman's block was the only place for the former Lord of Harrenhall to be of use in keeping order.

"A little over ten leagues." Jon answered. "I could ride there in about a day and be back in within another. If I hurried I could beat Edd and the Free Folk back here by the skin of my teeth."

"Two days too many." The Bright Stranger frowned in disapproval. "Perhaps I can cut down the time required and we might hold the Augur before your comrades have even reached their destinations?"

"With what sorcery?" Jon eyed the spectral manifestation cynically.

"What you call sorcery out of ignorance, I know as the gift of the gods." The Stranger glanced at the door. "I need to get to get to this castle's Weirwood."

Jon looked up from securing Longclaw to his belt. "Castle Black has none."

"Not now, perhaps." The Stranger knelt low to the floor, passing their palm inches over the wooden surface. "But I feel the roots. Cut down the trunk and the roots shall continue to grow. So long as one Weirwood of sufficient age grows beneath the sun, the roots of the rest shall be sustained and the spirits they embody live on. My ancestors learned this the hard way when they sought to make war with the Children, and paid dearly for their ignorance."

They moved to the doorway. "Come, Jon Snow. Your enemies sleep, thinking themselves victorious tonight. Let us take advantage of that short sightedness."

Reluctantly, Jon complied after pulling on a hooded cloak.

Xxx

Seeing the place where he'd bled out made the wounds in his chest throb painfully. Jon became cognizant of how little he felt anymore, relative to before his attempted murder. The chill in the air that he'd grown used to after several years seemed far less severe than he remembered, almost to the point that the night felt more like a mildly cool summer day back in Winterfell.

His heart ached, yearning for the home he'd left behind. It hurt like never before, as if telling him that Castle Black was no longer his home, that the Wall was no longer his home…that the Watch was no longer his family.

 _Your home is taken. Your family is scattered. You are called back. Back to the Pack. The lone wolf dies bu the Pack survives. You forgot this, but you are called all the same._

What was left of his pack today? Robb was butchered at a wedding, Sansa was a hostage of the Boltons if Stannis' information was accurate. Meanwhile Bran, Rickon and Arya were all missing and presumed dead.

He had only one sister who he knew still lived and she was in the hands of the Flayed Men…

Jon required little motivation to leave the Wall behind at this knowledge, especially if this Augur could absolve him of any perceived duty he had to remain among the people who had betrayed him. Sworn brother or not he knew what the true war was and would fight it regardless, but he had so many regrets resulting from his stubborn insistence on taking the Black as soon as possible…if he could remedy just a few things and bring his family back together again he would take that chance if it was open to him without any oaths to stand in his way.

The Bright Stranger led him into the centre of Castle Black's sparring yard. There, the spectre knelt and pressed both immaterial hands flat to the ground.

"Yes…yes…it's here!" They looked up at Jon. "Look beyond the physical world, Jon Snow. See as I see, and behold what mortals have blinded themselves to."

Somehow…Jon knew what the Stranger spoke of. He remembered the dark void, the chaotic background of not-winds and shimmering shapes and colours. The material world melted away, and at his feet he could see a pinprick of light and warmth shining through the ground.

 _SnowsnowsnowJonsnowJonJonsnow…_

Voices…so many…calling to him…

Jon knelt down and reached out with his hands until they occupied the same space as the Stranger's. The warmth rushed up his arms and into him, carrying with them the voices and thoughts of countless beings.

 _AWAKEN US JON SNOW._

Jon cried out and grasped hold of the light, pulling it up from the ground…to watch as it sprouted upwards, growing taller than the tallest tower in Castle Black and jutting high enough that it reached almost a third of the way up the Wall. Bright green like the Stranger, it blazed with power…with life! Millions of voices, crying out thanks and praise…the voices of the Old Gods of the Forest, of the spirits of nature.

Of every one of their followers.

It was almost overwhelming. Jon fell to his knees and clasped his head as the spectral world faded away, leaving him in the dark and silent sparring yard once more. When he opened his eyes he could make out the outline of the great Weirwood he had somehow pulled from the ground…and yet it was not truly there. It was there…and yet not.

"You've done it!" The Stranger cried in rejoice. "The Weirdwood that grew here was cut down long ago, but its roots still grew deep…and now the gods of the forest have awakened its spirits. The path is open to us now."

"And what path would that be?"

Jon drew Longclaw and spun around, coming face to face with a silhouette clad in red.

"I see that claims of your death are exaggerated, Jon Snow." Melisandre smiled despite having the tip of a Valyrian steel sword almost rest against her throat. "That is fortunate. I would not have liked to have one of the Lord's premonitions proven wrong."

Next to Jon, the Bright Stranger hissed. "A fire worshipper…how quaint."

The Priestess from Asshai by the Shadows shifted her gaze to lock onto the emerald tinted manifestation standing next to Jon. "Perhaps you might introduce me to your new companion." She said. "After all, it is not every day that a gravewalker rises."

Xxx

End of Chapter


	3. Chapter Two: Night Gathers

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Two: Night Gathers**

"Kill her." The Stranger commanded without preamble. "Strike quickly!"

If Melisandre feared at all that Jon would heed this demand then she hid that fear flawlessly behind a statuesque expression and unflinching gaze, the latter of which had turned on Jon once again.

"What are you waiting for?!" The Bright Stranger turned to him. "Dispatch this witch and let us be on our way!"

"I cannot." Jon slowly lowered Longclaw. "She is a guest of Castle Black, and the gods do not suffer the breaking of Guest Rite."

 _Not here in the North, they don't._

The Stranger grumbled something out using a language not dissimilar from some dialects found among the Free Folk. "What would possess you to grant protection to this Demon's Harlot?"

"You claim to know of my faith, Gravewalker." Melisandre took slow, deliberate strides through the muck and snow around Jon. "And yet your ignorance is painfully obvious."

"I see far more than candle lights and sconces will ever show you, charlatan." The Stranger moved behind Jon and growled into his ear. "Her kind has only ever been a hindrance. If you will not kill her, at least do not permit her to seduce-"

Jon cut him off abruptly. "She already tried. Why can she see you?"

"The Lord of Light has long granted those of my order with the gift of communicating with spirits who linger." Melisandre elaborated, stroking the ruby brooch clasped around her neck. "As well as knowledge of those who anchor themselves to the living, known as Gravewalkers. Although I must confess, until now I had thought there were none left to be found and yet here you stand, mortally wounded yet unfazed."

Sliding Longclaw back into its scabbard, Jon stepped away from the Priestess and turned about to face her. "I don't have time to waste with you or your god."

"So it would seem." Melisandre agreed, surprising him. "I've allowed myself to be distracted by your newborn union when I merely came with the intent to gift you with a boon from my Lord, taken from the flames." She stepped in towards him once more and whispered as she breezed past him. "Your prize lays in hands of black."

Jon spun to keep her to his front. "What does this mean?" He called, but she kept moving towards the stairway.

"All shall become clear, Jon Snow." She replied. "My lord showed you fighting at Winterfell, and his will is not easily denied. Take your prize and he may yet have more to share."

Jon watched as the fire Priestess vanished through a darkened doorway.

"Prophecies are unreliable at best." The Stranger said derisively. "And treacherous at worst. More so if they come from her ilk."

"How do you know of her faith?" Jon asked.

"I may not have seen its birth, but I saw what its followers wrought. They are a nuisance at best and an unstable element at worst." The Stranger's gloved hands clenched into fists and clenched his teeth. "She, especially, is dangerous. Have as little to do with her as possible after we return, or do away with her, ere her lord decides that you are still an acceptable sacrifice for her pyres."

Jon's eyes drifted to the point where Mance Rayder had been propped up, bound and set to burn at the stake. The King-Beyond-the-Wall had done his best to keep from cracking, only giving pained groans as the flames first began to lick his feet and work their way up his legs while smoke scorched his lungs. Jon still couldn't fully account for why he had snatched up a bow and arrow and put the former sworn brother out of his misery.

 _I couldn't watch him die. Not like that._

Oathbreaker or not, Mance had been one of the few Jon had met who truly fit the title of King. Stannis held the claim and conducted himself befittingly, viewing his birthright as an obligation instead of a privilege, but Mance's first and only concern had been saving his people, in granting them a future for themselves and their children.

Now more than half of his host was butchered and resurrected as Wights. How many more were wandering the frozen wastes beyond the Wall, too far to have heard of his edict granting them passage or too far to make the journey safely? Thousands? Tens of thousands? All waiting to be picked off, piecemeal, by the White Walkers and their undead legions.

The Stranger must have known the tangent his mind had taken.

"You can save the rest of the Wildlings." He told Jon. "Find the Augur of Night and I will show you what must be done."

The spectral silhouette of the Weirwood became the centre of Jon's attention once more. "What must I do?"

"Do as I do." The Stranger held one hand up, and Jon mimicked his movements as best as he could.

Reaching out, the Stranger pressed his incorporeal hand upon the equally immaterial bark. Jon felt a solid surface beneath his palm, a subtle warmth overlying a current, not unlike the hot spring-fed pipes laced throughout Winterfell to warm its chambers. The voices of countless souls whispered to him, urging him to follow them down…down beneath the soggy ground, further beyond the tunnels cutting beneath the castle.

They led him to the very roots of the Weirwood that once stood there. The trunk had been cut down, its stump dug up and the roots pulled until they'd been torn, but the deeper roots had remained, severing themselves from the surface to survive, ferrying the souls within to safer havens across the North and beyond.

And now they were ferrying him, body and soul. He could not describe the process easily at first, but discovered that it was almost as if the Weirwood was taking him into itself…and somehow permitting another to expel him, many leaves away from where he'd started.

Jon felt his knees buckle and managed to catch himself from falling face first into unfamiliar soil. A strangled gasp escaped his throat before he managed to draw breath and allow his eyes to adjust to his new surroundings.

He stood within a ruin in the midst of being overwhelmed and buried beneath a flourishing, feral Godswood that had been permitted to grow over the crumbling, black stone walls and rotted timbers. Several towers and structures remained standing with at least some semblance of structural integrity among them.

What struck him most was how quiet it was.

"The Nightfort." At his side, the Stranger stood, casting his pale glow as the world dissolved away to make way for the void of not-winds and incomprehensible shapes shifting in the background. "The seat of the Watch…how low it has fallen. I can't even recognize it, though I know we stand in the correct place."

Jon pushed himself to his feet, taking in his more immediate surroundings, what little that could be made out in this strange inhuman world he now walked in. He was in what appeared to be a kitchen, with abandoned utensils scattered about, the bones of vermin mixed with the dirt and snow that spilled in through breaches in the walls and windows and a well sitting at the middle…not far from where a Weirwood, a genuine material Weirwood tree had sprouted up from the ground and breached through the ceiling, twisted and gnarled as if to reflect the struggle it had faced when it sprouted.

"Old Nan told us that this castle was rebuilt many times." He told the Stranger. "Only the foundations beneath where we stand remain of the original structure."

"And still they allowed it to be abandoned." The Stranger stated glumly. "Why?"

As they departed from the kitchen to explore the grounds, Jon told the Stranger of events that he had either not been aware of or hadn't the patience to sift through memories to find himself. The decline of the Night's Watch, the rumoured rise of the Night King who held the Nightfort as his seat, the story of the Rat Cook as a warning to those who harmed guests beneath their roof…

"In the end, it was the strain of maintaining this castle that led them to abandon it." Jon concluded his tale. "I was hoping to see it manned once again, along with the rest."

"Truly, the North has forgotten if it allowed this." The Stranger shook his head, sounding for the first time since Jon had met him…depressed rather than cross, as though in mourning. "How could all of the old signs have been forgotten or ignored? How did you forget so much?"

Jon stopped in what must have once been the sparring yard, which was far larger than the one back in Castle Black. "Not everyone forgot." He supplied. "The Free Folk have known for a long time."

"And yet even they only recall fragments, a failure which even I share." The Stranger lamented. "But as long as the Wall stands there is still time to prepare. The Long Night was beaten back once by shattered and disparate kingdoms, it can be pushed back again as long as the first line of defence holds. Take me to the vaults, the Augur must be there."

Xxx

The passages beneath the Dreadfort were filled with a foul air, yet Jon had discovered that this barely affected him. His senses, while sharpened more than ever before, appeared to simply filter out harmful or disruptive elements. He could see as clearly as though the corridors were illuminated by daylight, hear the impact of individual droplets of moisture and deduce their general direction amidst the rippling echoes, pinpoint the scurrying rats as they moved about the filth infested floor.

"She called me a Gravewalker." He broke the silence of their trek through hollow, empty chambers and abandoned dungeons.

"She called _us_ Gravewalker." The Stranger corrected, appearing by his side again. "We are bound together, Jon Snow, trapped together…barred together. She spoke truthfully: my spirit has become latched to your body, and in doing so we have been pushed beyond life and death. My people had our own legends from the Age of Heroes which told stories…similar to ours, of warriors who took the spirits of the dead into themselves to accomplish some great feat. Slay a monster, defeat a tyrant, push back a threat…they rarely had coherent endings, and those few that did were rarely happy."

"It's all madness." Jon whispered. "Why me? Why now?"

"Had I the answers, I would share them with you." The Stranger insisted. "Our interests align now, Jon Snow. I would gain nothing by withholding truths from you."

"My only interests are in stopping the Long Night from returning." Jon responded as he came to a stop at a door which had withstood the test of time, though came down quickly enough when he pushed against it. "Anything else is unimportant."

"Which is why we've come here." The Stranger stepped past him into the cramped confines of a chamber coated with thick layers of dust. "None have entered here in so long…it must still be here."

Jon found several alcoves in the far wall, most of them empty. Two of them held bundles of obsidian blades and arrow heads, a small but measurable benefit for the Watch against the coming storm.

But there was nothing else of note.

"No…no…no!" The Stranger snarled, pacing furiously while Jon reached deeper into the alcoves, scraping the back of them for signs of anything he had missed. "How?!"

"You're certain that this Augur would still be here?" Jon demanded, twisting about after another failed search. "After so long? That nobody would have thought to take it when the Nightfort was abandoned?"

"It was never meant to be abandoned!" The Stranger hollered. "The foolishness of future generations led to this! To everything that I built being-"

He stopped mid-rant, eyes widening in realization while his shoulders heaved from heavy breaths.

"Everything…" Jon repeated. " _You_ built?"

"I don't…remember." The Stranger breathed, touching a shaking fingertip to his crown. "But I did. Just for a moment. I remembered…my name…"

Jon was struck by a sudden, intense chill, which came as a shock after barely beginning to adjust to being almost totally numbed to the intense cold. This pierced through his layers of leather, chainmail and furs like a spike of ice pulled from the furthest polar reaches of the world.

"They're here." The Stranger raised their eyes to the low ceiling. "They've come."

Xxx

Jon raced back to the surface, moving faster than ever before. This fact escaped him until he emerged into open air, clearing the expanse of the fort's dungeons and keep in less than a minute. He stumbled on a Weirwood root and rolled, cursing and grunting until he planted a palm to the ground and pushed himself back up.

"Where are they?" Around him, snow began to fall in greater amounts, slowly building into a curtain of white as the winds picked up.

"The Wall!" The Stranger's form was like a torch, projecting a beacon of light that cleared away the worst of the blizzard. "They're on the other side, but they're so close!"

Typically Jon would find nothing wrong with that. So long as they remained on the other side he would feel safe, and yet this time he shared the Stranger's urgency at this fact. Why would the Walkers be this close to this particular section of the Wall? There were no Wildlings nearby, as any refugees who had received word that passage south was being granted to the living would have focused on reaching any of the three occupied and accessible forts.

Unless someone had gotten lost or didn't know which forts hadn't sealed their tunnels…

"The tunnel is inaccessible." Jon said. "They can't cross."

"They couldn't if it was wide open!" The Stranger beckoned him over to the nearest Weirwood root. "But they have a purpose here, of that I am certain. Their king would not send one of his Lieutenants on any mundane errand."

Following instructions without pause, Jon placed his hand to the root.

He wound deep through the frozen ground, reaching every Weirwood tree across Westeros at once. For a moment he saw through all of them and nearly lost himself to the tide of memories, pulled in a billion directions by a billion souls. And then they joined in a harmonious song and led him along a single root, surging north under the wall, through the maw of a pale door carved in the likeness of a face.

Jon beheld the Haunted Forest, a sea of trees separated from the Wall by as little as a league in some places and several in others. It was bereft of life where once nomadic tribes of Free Folk and Giants alike had traversed and settled it without fear. What was there to fear back then? It was their land, as familiar and welcoming to them as the Wolfswood was to him.

Now it was empty in the hands of the dead, and the dead kept it.

No…not empty…something was riding towards the Wall. A man astride a steed, but both of them were dim lights of life…more than the pale figures that chased after them…more than the dark void incarnate that calmly rode it's own mount, a deformed and rotting equine preserved by the cold its master carried with it.

The rider being pursued wielded a chain tipped by a flaming morningstar that spun about and collided with the skull of a reanimated bear as it attempted to come close enough to strike at the rider's steed. Overhead, ravens swarmed among the branches and called out.

 _Snow! Snow! Snow!_

Jon was flung back into his body, sprawling back to fall on all fours. He scrambled to his feet and gazed up at the towering bulk of the Wall.

"Wights! And a Walker."

"We need to be beyond the Wall." The Stranger glared at the sealed tunnel entrance.

"The lift won't be in working order." Jon shook his head. "It would take too much time to take the ramp."

"Then we will not go over it." The Bright Stranger's fingers curled up and emitted a blazing emerald glare. "We will go under it, but first: do as I do, Jon Snow. We will not face the enemy ill equipped."

Xxx

"Hah!" Benjen Stark let out a hoarse cry as his morningstar crashed down on the skull of an Elk wight, sending it's body tipping forward into a tree trunk.

With the last of its faster Wights dealt with, the White Walker's crackling voice tore through the forest behind Benjen. It now commanded only raised Wildlings and the occasional Night Brother, some of them raised recently and others before the Targaryen Conquest and held together by the naturally frigid temperatures of this land.

Before tonight he had been actually scouting for caches of these preserved Wights. Despite his present condition he was still a Ranger and bound to fulfill his mission. Ironically he'd found that easier to accomplish after being run through by a White Walker's ice blade, no longer burdened by concerns of nourishment, exhaustion or frostbite. He'd spent months exploring regions where no man could walk in the open for too long, ere they freeze where they stood.

There he had seen that the White Walkers, the Pale Shadows, the Cold Gods…the Others had not remained idle, nor had they slumbered as once believed in old tales. They had always been in motion, expanding north and westward, snatching away lone wanderers and small groups of nomads who wandered too close to their territory. The corpses of men, women, child and beast from across multiple centuries, perhaps longer had been stored away and preserved much like stores of food parcels would be for a coming winter.

Only they'd been stored away for the longest winter in eight thousand years and were being awakened early. Thousands at least. Undoubtedly more. They had established a sizeable reserve even before moving onto butchering the living en mass.

He was pulled off of his mission without warning. All he knew was that he had to ride south to the Night Fort, carrying with him a parcel pulled from some nameless tomb in the Frost Fangs. Halfway to the Wall he'd come under attack and wandered from one ambush to another, barely escaping as the Walkers' attempts grew almost…frantic.

Could they know what he was carrying when even he didn't?

Benjen cleared the edge of the Haunted Forest, emerging into a flat plain with the Wall in sight. A glance over his shoulder revealed the Wights gathering at the edge, stopping as one and following him with blue, soulless eyes.

And from their ranks it emerged, catching the light of the moon on ornate, translucent armour. Flesh as white as snow, eyes blue like that of its undead thralls, gaunt and almost fair features combined with a fluidity in its movement that couldn't be made by any human. In one hand it held a long, thin crystal sword while in the other it held a battle axe made of the same substance.

Benjen came to a halt at the Nightfort's gate, sealed shut with the tunnel behind it filled with rock and ice.

 _The end of the path._

He could move no further. There was the Black Gate beneath, but it too would be barred to him even if he could still open it.

 _Gate! Gate!_ The ravens cried.

So it seemed his path had already been decided for him.

Benjen dismounted and sent his steed away. It was smart enough to evade the Wights and their masters, be it because of sorcery wrought by the Children or simply living long enough in these lands to recognize the signs of danger.

The tunnel sloping down beneath the wall had multiple entrances, the nearest of which wasn't even concealed, though on occasion it had to be unblocked of rock and ice. The enemy hadn't known he would come here, else he wouldn't be able to scramble down beneath the icey ground. Any light drifting in through the opening behind him was quickly blocked as the Wights began to pile in. The narrow confines of this entryway slowed them down while Benjen clawed his way through root and loose dirt, emerging into a wider passage which he'd become familiar with ever since he took his vows.

There it stood at the end of the tunnel. The pale bark of weirwood, frozen red sap staining a parody of a wrinkled and aged visage. Hollow eyes ran with fresh sap, something he'd never seen the Black Gate do before in all of his visits.

He reached into the folds of his cloak and held up a parcel wrapped in old leathers.

The gate stared impassively at him, a breeze drifting through the gaps in its cracked lips…

" _Who are you?_ "

"I am the watcher on the walls," the Wights were drawing closer. "I am the fire that burns against the cold-"

He glanced back to see the first set of blue eyes peering at him, skeletal hands dragging an emaciated torso.

"-the light that brings the dawn! The horn that awakens the sleepers!"He raised his voice. "I am the shield that guards the realms of man!"

" _Then pass._ "

Would that he could.

The Weirwood freaked as the lips of the gate parted, splitting the carved face apart to expose a passage beyond. Soon there was only the passage, and yet there may as well have still been a gate to bar his way. Would he have to throw the parcel through, if only to keep it out of the hands of the enemy? Was this where he would end?

He'd welcome it if it was, but fight and claw his way free of this trap if it was not so.

As he reared his arm back to throw the bundled object, a pale green light appeared far down the tunnel, giving him pause.

 _What is that?_

"Uncle Benjen, get down!"

Ben didn't truly need to breathe anymore, but still felt the air evacuate his lungs. "Jon?"

The green light raced towards him. Ben threw himself to the side and watched it sail past close to where he'd been standing, sinking into the head of the first of the Wights to dig their way free. Green flames spread across the reanimated corpse, eliciting a soulless shriek and reducing it to writhing on the floor of the tunnel. The same embers illuminated the mob gathering across from Benjen.

Hurried foot steps came through the Black Gate, and Ben felt himself being pulled up by the arm. He put his feet beneath his body and shot upright so that he could look his saviour in the eyes.

His nephew had grown since they last parted. The last vestiges of baby fat were shed, his long faced Stark features more pronounced and his armour and furs filled out by a matured physique. In one hand he carried a bow which gave off the unearthly glare, in the other he held a torch which had been set alight by the strange embers.

"Jon!" He breathed. "Gods, boy-"

 _He looks so much like you, Ned._

"Uncle, we need to go!" Jon's bow dissolved out of view, freeing up one hand to grab Benjen by the arm and tug him with surprising strength towards the gate's maw.

"Stop! Wait-" Benjen hissed as he felt the burning spread across his frozen flesh, fuelling him to tear free of Jon's grip and stumble back from the threshold.

"Uncle Benjen!" Jon raced back across and swung his torch, holding the mob of Wights at bay and catching three of them on fire, leading to more than a dozen bursting into flames before the rest learned to keep a safe distance. "What's happened? Why can't you cross?"

"He is of the dead." The Bright Stranger growled. "Touched by the magic of the Others. He cannot ever cross these wards, especially not by this gate."

"Who was that?" Benjen had climbed back to his feet again and was loosening the chains of his morningstar, glancing around for signs of any other companions that Jon must have brought with him only to find blue eyes and snarling, rotting jaws in three directions and an empty tunnel in the fourth.

"You heard that?" Jon stuck close by his side, holding the emerald torch up to fend off the remnant of the swarm. "Nevermind. We'll find another way."

"There's no way south for me, lad." Benjen began to spin his morningstar, establishing a steady rhythm. "I came here to finish my task. Behind me, just beyond the gate. You see it?"

Jon risked a momentary glance at the parcel Benjen had dropped during the ill-attempted crossing. "I do."

"Take it." Benjen ordered. "To Castle Black. The Lord Commander-"

"Is me." Jon cut him off. "And I'm not abandoning you."

"Gods, boy, this is bigger than me!" Benjen tried to shove him back, but found that he could barely nudge the younger man. "The Watch needs that!"

"He speaks wisely." The Bright Stranger agreed. "Leave him and grab the Augur, we musn't tarry."

Jon slowly drew Longclaw and held the tip out towards the surrounding Wights. "I'm not leaving. Uncle, if you can't follow me south then can you still leave this tunnel?"

Benjen knew where his nephew was taking this. "If you can help me clear a path through this lot, I can leave them in the snow and be a hundred leagues from here before they pick up my trail again. Would that convince you to go, boy?"

"Just barely." Jon whispered.

"Fine then," Benjen's morningstar spat flames out of its head and he charged forth. "Let's put the lot of them back in their graves then!"

The Wights surged forward, aiming to overrun with numbers. All this did was hasten their fall, be it to Benjen's morningstar or Jon's sword, most notably the latter which spread the spectral green fire to anything it touched. It helped that Jon moved faster than any man Benjen's had seen before, cutting a swath through the undead while also fending off attacks from multiple directions, many of them occurring in unison.

Before he knew it, Benjen stood at the end of a trail of smouldering corpses with his nephew at his side.

"Gods." Benjen looked at Jon. "How?"

"A long story." Jon motioned to Benjen's face. "How?"

Against his will, Benjen smiled painfully. "A long story. I've a clear path now, I can make my way out at another entrance. You need to go."

Jon seemed prepared to protest, but the Bright Stranger put paid to that. "If we don't complete our mission the Watch will be left in the hands of oath breakers, come morning."

"Who was-" Benjen stopped himself. "Long story."

"Come to Castle Black." Jon said, then repeated himself more assertively. " _Report_ to Castle Black, Stark. That's an order from your Lord-Commander."

"I'll have no better luck crossing there than here."

"You won't have to. Just be near the gate tomorrow at noon." Jon sheathed Longclaw. "And uncle…"

Benjen was almost picked up off of his feet as the younger man wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug. With a slight groan he returned the gesture and saw that his nephew's eyes were watering and already threatening to freeze.

"I'm glad you're alright." Jon said earnestly. "Please, be there."

For a moment it felt like there was no force in the world that would keep him from following that one order. Then he remembered the incarnation of ice and death prodding along overhead, waiting for reinforcements.

"I will, now go!" He urged Jon on towards the gate and made his own escape, anticipating the long trek east.

 _Your father would be proud of you, lad. I know that I am._

Xxx

Jon didn't bother to open the parcel on his way back up to the Nightfort. His uncle was alive and well, and for him that was all that mattered. He'd long ago made peace with believing him dead, even going as far as to name Thorne as the new First Ranger. It had been both a necessary and practical decision at the time, serving as an olive branch to patch things between them and allow Jon to begin his tenure with one less irritant.

 _So much for that._

"We have it!" The Stranger brushed one non-corporeal hand across the leather covered object. "I feel it…the old magic stirs within still. Someone thought to preserve it where your short sighted andal neighbours would not damage it."

Somehow Jon doubted that Andals had been the cause of the Augur being relocated, but he had neither the inclination nor the patience to argue semantics. "How does it work?"

"Patience, Jon Snow. First, we return to Castle Black to deal with the traitors." The Stranger smirked viciously. "Then we remind the Watch of their duty in s way they shall never forget."

Xxx

End of Chapter

For anybody confused about Jon's thoughts regarding 'Mance' being burnt: he didn't know it was really Rattleshirt, whose absence meant Tormund had one less person to beat to death at Hardhome. The reasons for her refraining from sacrificing Mance shall be explained in future chapters.

Also, one free imaginary cookie to whoever can guess the Bright Stranger's true identity first. Send answers via review only, anonymous ones won't be answered.


	4. Chapter Three: Thus Always to Traitors

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

In regards to all those who thought that the Bright Stranger is Bran the Builder…pardon me as I commence with the laughter of a thousand mad scientists.

Xxx

 **Chapter Three: Thus Always to Traitors**

Ser Alliser Thorne had loathed Jon Snow right from the very moment the bastard had strutted into Castle Black, showing off his superior training and pet Direwolf. He'd hated the boy before he even met him without truly knowing it, simply for being the spawn of the twice-traitor Ned Stark. He'd hated how Snow had dared to look him in the eye after murdering Qhorin Halfhand, a brother to him in every way that mattered, and claim he did so at Halfhand's command.

He hated him…and yet he felt no pleasure when he sank his knife into the lad's chest, watched the shattered expression on his face as Olly finished the job or waited until the Lord-Commander drew his final breath.

He felt nothing. There was only his duty to the Night's Watch that would keep him through this crisis now.

The speech in the mead hall had been almost as hard as the assassination. He'd had to stand up and confess to breaking his vow of fealty, of shoving his knife into his superior's chest and leaving him to die in the snow. But somehow the others had come around, most of them anyways. They loathed his decision, but it made it easier for them to focus on the true enemy that now roamed unchallenged south of them.

But first…one last matter had to be attended to.

Archers and Arbalists were dispersed across the yard and the wall, in case the last holdout of loyalists thought to charge out for one last show of defiance. Thorne could have sent anyone on his behalf, but he'd stained his own hands and his own soul with blood and treachery up to this point and saw no point in changing that now.

"Brothers." He spoke after rapping upon the door with his fist. "We've no cause to fight. We are all loyal to the Watch."

He was met with silence, but he could hear the sing of castle forged steel being drawn and shuffling foot steps.

Alliser did not let this deter him. "I will grant amnesty to every brother who throws down their arms before nightfall."

Initially the plan had been simple: take the Queen and Princess hostage, give her men a choice to leave, secure Alys Karstark as added insurance and deny Stannis the use of Eastwatch by threatening his wife and heir until his fleet withdrew, letting him starve and freeze so the Boltons could ride north to wipe out every last Wildling roaming in the Gift.

But by the time his power base was secure the Queen and her men had gone, Alys Karstark had gone with Tollett and a dozen loyalists were barricaded in the second floor storage rooms with Snow's wolf and the Red Woman – strangely enough. He was pressed for time and needed to have the castle secured against the inevitable retaliation by the Wildlings and Stannis' forces.

"If the Red Woman is there, she is free to leave." He offered. "We'll grant her a horse, food enough to ride east or south as she wishes. I'll even some of you to escort her if you doubt my word."

More silence, save for soft foot steps across rickety wooden boards.

"My thanks for your generous offer, Ser Alliser." The Red Woman said. "However, I stand right where my Lord requires me to be."

Give him a thousand Jon Snows, a thousand Davos Seaworths, even a million Mance Rayders to deal with, but Alliser never liked talking with Septons, Priestesses or any zealots of any faith. The gods had left him here long ago to freeze and die and he cared not for whatever price they'd reap of him in the next life.

"My offer stands: surrender by nightfall, else this will end with blood." He declared and stormed back to the staircase.

Xxx

Jon waited until Thorne's steps had receded. "I think we've made him mad, lads." He whispered.

The night had been wasted, even though he'd been back in little over an hour after leaving for the Nightfort. The Augur, some black crystal orb, had required the hand of an elected Lord-Commander to function in its full capacity, and while the men around him might know him as the 998th of his position, the Augur knew better.

His vow was fulfilled, he'd given his life to the Watch and was free.

He was Lord-Commander no more.

"If they want in, they're going to get in." One of the Men, Garett, said while keeping his sword half drawn and his eyes fixed on the door.

"Tollett's our only hope now."

"Tis a sad day when Dolorous Edd is our best hope."

"He'll pull through for us." Jon rubbed Ghost's ears and made his way to the door linking to the next room over. "If they start to break in, fall back into here."

"Another door won't hold them much longer than the first would." Garet pointed out. "Why do you not reveal yourself, Lord-Commander?"

That had been Jon's first instinct. Confront the traitors, reveal that he had survived in spite of their actions after Thorne had already confessed…

 _And trust the rest of the Watch to act accordingly?_

Jon was ashamed to admit it, but that kind of thinking was what had gotten his family slaughtered time and time again. He was not Robb Stark, he would not suffer for thinking too much of someone simply because they were sworn to his service. Nor was he Ned Stark, who walked into a pit of vipers so woefully underprepared that he was executed with his own sword less than a year into his tenure.

He would not fall like them. He not trust so casually again.

"Because I'd rather wait until an army stands beyond the gates, ready to break in and slaughter every last mutineer in this castle." Jon replied. "If I appear now there is nothing stopping Thorne from killing me again. You've all told me how easily the rest of the garrison sided with him."

"They all believed you dead-"

Jon strode forward and hissed. "And when Lord-Commander _Mormont_ was murdered we did not reward his killers. We did not elect Karl Tanner or Rast. This is not some Dothraki Khalassar and my being dead should not have stopped every one of them from falling upon Thorne with sword in hand if they stood by the oaths they took."

"To be a shield for the realms of man." Garet nodded slowly, remaining calm in the face of Jon's simmering rage. "And how many outside of those who went with you to Hardhome know what they are defending from? Lord-Commander, we all saw the enemy and gods help us, we can't ever _forget_ them. That is why we supported your decision, but many of these men…the only enemy they know are the Wildlings."

He was right. Damn him.

"That is why I won't have every one of their heads." Jon took a step back, feeling Ghost move up to his side. "Just those who aided Thorne. Then I'll show the rest what we saw at Hardhome and there will be no claims of ignorance to defend further treachery. We wait until the Free Folk arrive, or until that door falls in before I reveal myself."

Jon nodded towards the open doorway. "That's why I want you all back in there if the worst happens. If help doesn't come…"

He would cut down anyone who tried to keep him from Ser Alliser, further depriving the Watch of badly needed manpower just so he could sate his thirst for vengeance.

"…I'll have no one die for my sake." Jon said, resolute. "Not today."

Xxx

"You know that blood will be shed, no matter what you do." The Stranger's stare reminded Jon so much of his father, calling him back to the lessons where the Lord of Winterfell personally took to tutoring him and Robb on the intricacies of ruling, be it a grand castle, humble holdfast or all of the North.

Ned Stark never had the patience to mince words or cast a world tinted by roses. The Quiet Wolf only ever spoke the blunt and honest truth, and damned however bad it might be.

If this man was who Jon thought he was…or once had been, that trait was undoubtedly hereditary.

"But I can make sure that as little as possible is shed." Jon countered, able to speak with impunity in the howl of the not-winds, assures by his passenger that in the confines of what they knew to be the Wraith World only they would be audible to one another. "The Watch is already undermanned."

"And ill equipped." The Stranger snorted, gesturing to the outlines of racks of weapons surrounding them. "Steel. Forged by the hands of ignorant Andals. Made for killing other men, not for slaying the dead. No dragon glass, no protective runes, no Augur, three of nineteen castles manned…dare I even wonder what this order has done to misplace everything else that was gifted to it? They've done a

marvellous job of squandering the lion's share so far."

"Save your resentment for another time." Jon glowered and tapped one gloved finger on the black crystal laying on the table between them. "The Augur. With no Lord-Commander, how do we make it work?"

"Without one, its power is limited." The Stranger replied. "But…not all of its functions are dependant on a Lord-Commander's presence. There is one way that it may aid us."

"How?"

"It may appoint an interim commander until a true successor is elected." The Stranger held out a hand towards it. "Do as I do, Jon Snow."

Xxx

It was a sign of the world going mad that Eddison 'Dolorous' Tollett could walk into a Wildling camp filled with all manner of savages, giants, wargs and feral beasts not seen south of the Wall in centuries and walk back out at the head of an army. Any fears of being cut down upon approaching the encampment were put to rest when he recognized that the Thenn were maintaining order.

Nobody liked them north or south of the Wall, but they were the closest thing to an organized group with a leader akin to a Lord, and the Magnar of Thenn's word was not easily challenged, even when it was to prevent any Wildling with half a grudge and half a bottle of liquid blind courage from sticking the first Crow they saw. Edd and Alys were brought to Tormund Giantsbane and Magnar Sigorn where they told of what happened. The mutiny, the attempt on Jon's life, his miraculous survival in spite of severe wounds, his orders.

Sigorn, shown to be as reluctant as Alys was with the arrangement, quickly came to like how fierce his betrothed turned out to be, particularly when she took a knife to the knee of the first man who tried to touch her on the way through the camp. He required little convincing in honouring his pledge to marry her and grant her the aid of every fighting man and spear wife under his command. Tormund had already gone about gathering (or clobbering) as many war chiefs as he could into forming an army and marching north as fast as possible.

And now Edd marched with five giants, two hundred Thenn warriors, another hundred of their spear wives and five hundred others from assorted tribes who agreed only on one thing: they owed the King Crow their lives and were set on repaying that debt. He had no worries about overwhelming Castle Black's southern facing (and he tried not to chuckle every time he thought about it) defences, not when one giant could knock down every wall and demolish the castle with its bare hands.

They were close now, just waiting for when the sun dipped down far enough that it wouldn't give their approach away too far in advance. There were no fires, no boasting or fighting, just a grim silence as they remained out of view from the Wall, concealed in the forests near Castle Black.

"Six, you said?"

"At least." Edd nodded. "All in his chest, blood still fresh."

Tormund snorted. "That pretty little bastard's sturdier than he looks then." He returned his attention to a flask of wine, kindly donated by the Thenns currently occupying Karhold in the name of King Stannis, but found that it didn't quite match up to his preferred drink: good old fermented milk of a mammoth or genuine northern mead. "You southrons have shite tastes."

"From what I'm told, that was some of Cregan Karstark's." Edd took the flask from him and tipped a mouthful down his throat and grimaced. "…who had shite tastes even by my standards, apparently, and I've been living off mottled goat's milk for gods' sakes."

Tormund snorted out a soft laugh. "Walk with us long enough and we'll show you some fine drink, make a real man o' you yet."

Before Edd could find what would pass for a polite refusal among Freefolk, they were interrupted when a man scrambled through the bushes, shaking snow off of low hanging branches as he stopped next to the small gathering. "Giantsbane! Something's got the skinchangers acting up." Hissed the man, one of the forward scouts assigned to escort the precious few wargs in their company. "Talking something about a tree."

Tormund gave the man an unimpressed stare, looked around and gave an exaggerated wave of his arm at their surroundings. "Which one?" He grunted, eliciting some chuckles from those sitting close by.

The scout realized his mistake and shook his head. "They're saying they see a Heart Tree sticking right up out of Castle Black."

This got the warchief's attention. "I've been there, there isn't." He said bluntly, but was rising to his feet. "Show me."

Edd followed them to where the trees began thinning out, just within sight of the castle. From here Edd could identify the familiar shapes of each tower and storehouse, even spot the elevator being lifted up towards the fortifications atop the Wall…but he could plainly see nothing to suggest that a godswood had sprung up all of a sudden.

"I can see it through my hawk!" One of the wargs insisted. "Great and tall, green and blazing with life!"

"I could hear them." Another said wistfully, tears brimming in her eyes. "The gods, I could hear their song. But only through my other skin!"

All of them made the same claim with no differentiating details: a great Heart Tree was visible through the eyes of their partnered animals, towering over the highest structures of Castle Black. Several who had been scouts in Mance Rayder's army insisted they hadn't seen it before their attempt at breaching the Wall.

"What do you make of it?" Edd asked after Tormund, sick of hearing the same thing over and over, stormed away.

"Make o' it? I don't fuckin' like it, that's what I make o' it." Tormund growled. "Used to be you'd never find me with a Skinchanger, 'less they had breasts too big to fit in one hand. We never trusted them, then Mance brought them all in and made them useful. It's magic, and I've had my fill o' magic since before Hardhome. It changes nothin', we storm the castle by night."

Edd had no cause to complain, but had intended to ask more. His words died in his throat as he felt a warmth spread outwards from his heart and all throughout his body. Tormund sword and recoiled away from him, drawing his jagged sword as other Freefolk exclaimed in shock. Edd tried to ask the, what was wrong, but he could not move his lips nor draw breath…

 _ **Brothers of the Watch! The time has come for one to lead you once more!**_

"Tormund! The crows! They're all- gods, what the fuck?!"

 _ **A new Lord-Commander must be chosen to spearhead the fight against the true enemy.**_

"What's happening to him?!"

"His eyes!"

Edd couldn't see them anymore. His hearing went next. All was drowned out by a thousand voices clamouring over one another, crying out in disharmony.

 _Alliser Thorne! Cotter Pyke! Denys Mallister!_

 _What has happened?!_

 _But we have a Lord-Commander!_

Knives flashed in the dark. Edd was face to face with Jon, holding one.

"For the Watch." He said in a voice that was not his, tears spilling down his cheeks.

 _TRAITORS! OATH BREAKERS!_

 _They had to! He let the Wildlings through!_

 _They aren't the real enemy you stupid whoresons!_

 _I was at Hardhome! I saw the enemy, and I saw the Lord-Commander face them!_

 _They're raiders! Reavers! Little better than the Ironborn! They'd pillage and murder for a thousand miles!_

 _He betrayed the Watch!_

 _He was saving it you damned fool of a cunt!_

 _Silence, all of you!_

A voice of reason and seniority. Edd had never met Cotter Pyke in person, but he knew for a fact who was calling for order.

 _Lord Cotter, what is this sorcery!?_

 _I can't block it out…so many voices! I keep seeing things, hearing them!_

 _I was holding the knife…but I couldn't have. I'm in the Shadow Tower!_

 _Silence!_ Cotter Pyke thundered. _Where are Alliser Thorne and his conspirators to account for these actions?_

A thousand harmonious voices answered him.

 _ **No oath breakers may be included in this gathering. They have forsaken their vows, so too have they forsaken any right to take part. The time for judgement shall come, but first you must appoint a new Lord-Commander. Be swift, else we shall choose for you. We have bridged your minds to allow you all to be informed of relevant facts surrounding these events**_

 _Lord Cotter._ Edd managed to make his voice be heard and made sure to conduct himself as befitting one addressing their superior, even if they were somehow communicating form hundreds of miles away. _I am Eddison Tollett of Castle Black. Lord-Commander Snow lives, and the Free Folk have leant us aid in bringing Thorne to justice._

He could see himself, standing upright and staring vacantly at Castle Black. His eyes emitted a silver glow and several Free Folk surrounded him, trying to shake him awake. The rest were flooding over the paltry battlements of Castle Black while Wun-Wun was pushing the gate open with casual ease.

 _Wildlings!_

 _They're taking the castle!_

 _I can't move! I can't get back to my body!_

 _We're all stuck here until we choose, it would seem._ Cotter Pyke said grimly. _But if Lord-Commander Snow lives, why must we appoint a replacement?_

 _ **He who is known as Jon Snow was Lord-Commander, but is no longer. His watch has ended, though he draws breath in spite of this. He is now beyond life and death and cannot continue his service.**_

Many clamoured for answers, and even Pyke could not bring them to be silent this time.

Edd couldn't believe it. Jon was alive, the picture of health despite his brush with death. He wasn't a Wight either, Edd had the image of blue eyes burned so coherently into his mind that he'd never fail to spot one from a mile away until his dying day.

Yet when he found himself viewing Castle Black's interior as a disembodied observer, Jon looked as if he was a torch of wild fire when he stepped into view.

And with the look of murderous rage he had in his eyes, he may as well have been a demon straight out of the lowest of the seven hells.

Xxx

"What's happened to them?!" Bowen Marsh looked frantically around the yard at the rest of the assembled Brothers, all of whom were staring ahead with a ghostly sheen emanating from their eyes, totally unresponsive.

"Forget that!" Thorne snapped, hurrying up the steps towards the gate house. "We're under attack!"

They could hear hundreds of battle cries out beyond the wall. He risked glancing out and barely pulled back as a dart sang through where his head had been. He'd done a quick count and found that he now had fewer than ten men, including himself, to call to arms.

They were all the men who had helped him in assassinating Snow.

"What do we do?!" Yawryck cried out.

"We fight to the last!" Thorne barked, drawing his sword and spotting young Olly with a bow in hand, arrow nocked and drawn back.

The boy might have been more than a good shot, but he made the mistake of exposing himself to a number of archers who had decades of experience over him and didn't hesitate to put it to use in clearing the walls, covering those who hurried up ropes secured by hooks tossed up over the palisades. Olly was riddled with five arrows in short order, releasing his own far off target as he was thrown back and tumbled back over the edge, plummeting to the yard below with a strangled cry.

Something was banging against the gate below. Forms were already flooding over the battlements, cutting down the few who stood to meet them. Thorne cut down one on his way back down, beating a hasty retreat to regroup with his few remaining comrades, including Yawryk and Marsh.

The gates swung in, the beam dropped across them snapped like a delicate twig. A Hiant stormed through with a roar and brought with it a larger crowd of Wildlings. They stopped short after cornering Thorne and his co-conspirators on the central platform where the elevator was. Weapons were held up and snarling faces shouted threats and insults, yet they were held back by a single gesture from the leader of this rabble: the Giantsbane himself.

"You fucking bastards." Thorne hissed. "You fucking Wildling bastards!"

Tormund cracked a ghost of a smile. "You've got a real thing for bastards, Crow."

Thorne bristled. "Castle Black as stood for thousands of years against you and yours. You'll never hold it!"

"It did stand." Tormund agreed. "Until you. And I think we'll manage, with or without spilling a little more Crow blood."

He wouldn't surrender. He couldn't. Not after everything he'd done, nor would he dignify this with a mummer's farce of a trial, if there even was one.

"I'll never-"

"Alliser Thorne!"

Silence fell over the yard, and Thorne felt his heart skip a beat.

 _There's no way. He's dead. We saw him die._

His eyes slowly wandered to the staircase to the second floor of the store house. Standing at the top, he saw Jon Snow glaring at him with an intensity which made him think of the ferocious wolf packs he'd encountered beyond the Wall over the course of his service. A burning, ferocious rage was concealed behind the younger man's dark eyes and stoic expression, manifesting more visibly in the slow, deliberate steps he took down to the yard. Each foot fall echoed through the yard as all eyes remained locked on him, some only breaking this stare when they took notice of Ghost following his master down.

Yarwyk's lips quivered open, half formed words and questions spilling out only to be lost amidst stutters. Thorne heard at least two of the men behind him drop their weapons and another whisper a prayer to the Seven.

Jon stopped in front of the mutineers, Longclaw held at his side. For a few moments there was total silence all throughout the castle.

Then, Jon held his arms out to his sides. "Perhaps one of you might wish to try again?" He invited.

"How?" Thorne couldn't bring himself to say anymore than that, and he could barely gather the breath for the single word.

"No?" Jon slowly lowered his arms. "Then let's put an end to this. Throw down your weapons or be cut down where you stand."

There was a clatter of swords against the ancient wood planks behind Thorne before he felt his fingers go limp, dropping his blade at his feet. Several hands grasped each of the mutineers and held fast, though none of them offered resistance.

Tormund emerged from the sea of fur and leather clad figures. "Snow!"

"Tormund, have them taken the Ice Cells." Jon commanded, finally turning away from Thorne.

"What of the rest?" Tormund motioned to the immobile black brothers.

"Leave them." Jon shook his head. "They remained true to their oaths, and now they need a little time."

Some more than others, but now he would have a way to identify the direct participants of Thorne's mutiny.

"If you find any other brothers who are not in this state, assume they're in league with Thorne." Jon added. "Give them one chance to surrender."

"And if they don't?"

"Then they've wasted their one chance for mercy."

Once, Tormund would have grumbled and griped over being given orders, least of all from a Crow younger than his own sons and prettier than his daughters. But this was no ordinary Crow, so he relayed the orders and set his people to work on manning Castle Black.

It never occurred to him to even feel pleased at how much easier it had been to take the ramshackle fort than his first ill fated attack.

Xxx

 _He's alive!_

 _Such light…everything else- everyone else looks so dim._

 _Did you hear him? He knows about…whatever this is!_

 _Did he make it happen? Is this his sorcery?_

 _Would you thick headed fools hurry up and vote already?! I was taking a piss off the wall when this happened and I'm not letting my cock freeze off!_

 _Gods, seriously?!_

 _Just fucking vote!_

 _Who do we vote for?_

 _Cotter Pyke, who else?!_

 _What about Denys Mallister?_

 _I don't care who, just vote!_

 _What if I want to throw my name in?_

 _Fucking. Vote. Now!_

 _Oh gods old and new, my balls are probably about to fall off!_

Eddison Tollett had already cast his vote, yet it appeared that he was still doomed to remain party to this debate.

He just prayed that someone remembered to keep him warm until he was released.

Xxx

Thousands of miles away, one Samwell Tarly was briefly awoken by strange, fogged dreams and sent running to the edge of the ship ferrying him south. With some help from Gilly he was able to get back to sleep in spite of the constant rocking.

When Gilly woke him the next morning, excited at the prospect of sighting Oldtown, he didn't even remember his restless dreams at all. He prepared himself for what awaited him on shore, knowing that his task would not be as easy as it might sound.

 _Information on dragon glass deposits, texts concerning the White Walkers and the Long Night._ He recited in his head. _All this while studying to become a Maester._

On their own these tasks would have hardly been trouble for him, but they brought him so close to home. Too close for comfort. He didn't relish the idea of being anywhere near is father after how they parted ways, even after facing things far more terrifying than Randyll Tarly and his petulant pride. But the mere memory of that utter monster of a man was still enough to make Sam want to go back and face White Walkers, dragon glass be damned.

 _The things I do for the-_

Samwell felt a pulsing ache in his skull and reached up to rub his temple as he emerged onto the deck of the ship.

 _For…the Watch._

Xxx

End of Chapter


	5. Chapter Four: Judgement

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

In regards to all those who STILL believe the Stranger is Brandon the Builder, prepare yourselves to feel the bitter sting of a thousand disappointments.

Xxx

 **Chapter Four: Judgement**

In the end it was Denys Mallister who claimed the mantle of the 999th Lord Commander, with Alliser Thorne's brief tenure not being given even the slightest consideration. Another dozen brothers were found to be excluded from the effects of the Augur in Castle Black alone, with reports of up to forty more divided between the Shadow Tower and East Watch. Any who had been in the process of undertaking some task which would have left them in danger appeared to have been excluded until they were in a position where there was no such risk, be it operating the winch elevators, walking along a particularly slippery portion of the Wall or even feeding a fire.

Word was also passed along that Queen Selyse, Princess Shireen, Ser Davos and their escorts had arrived safely at East Watch where a company of Stannis' forces immediately saw to their safety. Cotter Pyke and Denys Mallister wasted no time in hunting down those affiliated with Thorne's coup, but also discovered that there were some in the ranks who had not participated or even known of it. Jon shared his suspicion that these were those who had taken their vows with no interest in upholding them once they found an opportunity to escape.

Some were criminals who had not found honour or duty in their service to the Watch, but instead simmered in outrage and resentment. One was even an informant for the Boltons, sent to the Wall to monitor the Watch ever since Jon had been elected Lord-Commander…or at least that was what Cotter Pyke had managed to pry from him before taking his head.

The rest were given one last opportunity, as they had not yet acted in any way that would have traditionally warranted death. They would journey to Castle Black under guard and renew their vows to the Watch in the old way, before the Augur itself, and then the worth of their word would be measured accordingly.

In the week following Ser Allier's arrest Jon had found himself with little to do now that he was free of his vows, yet he still made time to burn the bodies of those who fell taking Castle Black and then to conversing with the new Lord-Commander by raven. Otherwise he found himself among the Free Folk where he was informed of the Wargs' vision.

' _How could they see it too?_ ' He wondered, and the Bright Stranger did not hesitate to give him an answer.

"The Old Magic has been diluted by time and ignorance, but it remains strong among the _vellorai_." He walked along the entrenchments atop the Wall with Jon where he could speak openly without entering the Wraith World.

"The what?"

"It means…followers of the old way. Vell, to follow. Vellor, follower of the old. When the Wall was built all who dwelt near and north of it were given able warning and opportunity to move south, even after its completion many tribes migrated in either direction." The Stranger explained. "But in time, men on both sides forgot why they ever built it at all. Traditions changed and diverged, one side saw fit to trigger hostilities and eventually matters became as they are now."

He shrugged and motioned with one arm southwards to the encampment of the Free Folk spread beyond the walls of Castle Black. "Perhaps it is for the better, as you now have thousands of willing followers who retain the Old Magic."

"But not nearly enough." Jon pointed out. "Lord-Commander Mallister is hesitant, and that will cost lives that could be saved."

"I glimpsed him in the Augur." The Stranger said. "He seems a good enough man, but Cotter Pyke may have proven a better choice. If you wish to save those who still remain beyond the Wall you cannot wait for their blessing, least of all now that you are no longer bound to obey them."

"But now they are no longer bound to respect the alliance with the Free Folk." Jon countered. "If I make enemies of Mallister he might see fit to seal the Wall to anymore refugees."

"That is a matter that can be addressed if it ever manifests," the Stranger dismissed his concern. "For now, I can feel dozens of living souls being hunted down and butchered with each passing day. And with each day the Others' will grow stronger until all the armies of Westeros cannot hope to stand against them. You must choose what matters more, Jon Snow; to play the game of politics like your southron neighbours delight in, or to do what must be done."

On more than one occasion since his resurrection, Jon had wished that he had stayed dead so the matter could be passed on to another; to Denys Mallister, to King Stannis and all the other so called monarchs who made claim to one land or another. He was but a bastard who had been frightened out of his family's home by the scornful silent glare of some trout-woman, not Brandon the Builder or Breaker or any of a hundred others who shared the same name and forged legends that carried on even today.

But here he stood now, the Gravewalker, as Melisandre was fond of calling him in each encounter. The name had spread among both the Watch and Free Folk alike until that became his new title: Jon-Gravewalker, the Grave-Wolf, the Ghost of Castle Black. It was only thanks to Tormund, Dolorous Edd and later the newly returned and wed Alys Thenn that he had escaped being pestered with questions, and he knew that word had to have reached King Stannis by now.

He couldn't allow rumours and suspicions to gestate, that much was clear. Words were wind, actions spoke louder…and he knew the one action that could dispel any thousand rumours accusing him of being some new form of Wight or an oath breaker.

"How do I find them?" Jon asked. "How do I bring them all to safety?"

Xxx

"After Hardhome was butchered by the army of the dead, most of the host gathered by Mance Rayder was put to the sword and now walks with our enemy." Jon indicated the location of the fallen settlement where it had once lay on a peninsula to the far north-east. "But recently there have been groups passing through the Wall who had survived the slaughter, and shared tale of another host gathering in or near the Haunted Forest."

"How could anyone get away from that?" Edd asked, seated around a table alongside Tormund, Magnar Signorn Thenn and his wife Alys. "Had to be thousands of those things spilling all over Hardhome."

"We've got our ways." Tormund boasted. "If you're desperate enough, smart enough or both then a little swim is nothin' for us as long as there's somewhere you can crawl into after to avoid freezin' solid."

"Many could have also been leaving just as the attack began." Alys proposed. "If this army marches as one unified host except for any strays wandering the Haunted Forest they could have neglected to fully encircle Hardhome by land before attacking."

"The blue-eyes aren't clever." Sigorn growled, nodding in agreement to the assessment. "They never tire, but they can't hunt what they can't find. Hidden passes, tunnels, anything they can't see we'd use to get away."

"How many are there?" Edd asked, tipping a mug of mead down his throat.

"There wasn't any clear census but from what we can tell there are at least twice the number of survivors we pulled from Hardhome." Jon said, drawing a line south west before looping it back up on a northward tilt into the Haunted Forest. "This host has to remain on the move. The refugees spoke of many falling behind every day only to appear later as Wights."

"They're bein' herded." Tormund said grimly. "Fuckers've done this before, with smaller tribes. Chase 'em far away from help, push 'em as far north as they can and if the cold and empty belly doesn't finish 'em off they almost welcome a quick blade to the heart. Or ten."

"How can we reach them?" Edd asked. "Much less help them? We've few horses left, and we'd lose the lot of them trying to race up there before we get anywhere near."

"Leave that to me." Jon said. "What I need is for one of you to take part of Stannis' fleet back north. The Wights are moving away from the Shivering Sea, which gives us an opportunity. We need to scour those lands for caches left by the First Men. They left dragon glass weapons, sigils that protected these caches against the Others and their Wights. These caches are more valuable than gold now, the sigils themselves are worth more than Casterly Rock as far as I'm concerned."

Sigorn nodded. "The Thenns will bring dragon glass." He grunted.

Alys reached over and set a hand atop her husband's. "Yes." She agreed. "We'll bring back as much as we can."

For any southern lord and most Northlords her implied involvement would be out of the question, but the Magnar of Thenn's response was a grim smile and to turn his arm over and grip his wife's hand in his. Jon had seen them behaving amicably with one another ever since their return as newlyweds, but now he suspected that the new Magnar was more than just pleased to have Alys formerly of House Karstark as his wife.

"Lord-Commander Mallister has already authorized this ranging. You'll find five ships ready for you at East-Watch. Take some of the Wargs with you." Jon said. "They can spot any incoming attacks and…"

 _And now they can see where the Old Magic has awakened._

"They'll make finding these caches much easier."

Sigorn climbed to his feet. "We go." He rumbled and stepped out, followed closely by Alys.

Tormund grunted. "Not like we'd ever get our people back out east anyways."

"Lord-Commander Mallister isn't aware of this next ranging, and I've no intention of letting him learn of it until it's already over." Jon said bluntly. "If either of you have compunctions about this, I'd suggest you report it after I've departed."

Tormund snorted. "Report? Snow, quit fuckin' around'n tell us." He demanded while Edd shrugged helplessly and refilled his mug.

"I'm going to lead a ranging of my own beyond the wall to reach the Free Folk host, break the Wight encirclement and get as many of them south as possible." Jon took in their stunned expressions. "Edd, I need you to keep the gate here open, no matter what. Tormund, I need you and a few of your best trackers and Wargs to come with me. They might not trust me, but they'll believe you."

Tormund let out a laugh. "Fuckin' death over once wasn't enough for you? Alright, Snow, I'll see who I can pull away for a stroll north." He scraped his chair back and began to shuffle over to the door.

"I'll do my best, but if Mallister is showing up with enough men to secure all those retaking their vows it might be difficult." Edd warned. "Best keep those giants around, just to be safe."

"With any luck, you won't need them."

"Hey, Snow." Tormund stopped by the door and turned. "They say who was leadin' that host?"

Jon thought back to the many tales to accompany the fleeing Free Folk that passed through Castle Black. "Someone named Val."

Tormund burst out laughing again and slapped the door open. "Oh, Snow, if she's still alive when we get there you're in for one hell of a welcome."

"You know this Val?" Edd asked.

"Know her?" Tormund grinned. "She's Mance's good-sister by your standards. That'd make her a Princess among kneelers, right?" He laughed and slammed the door behind him on his way out.

Jon slowly lowered his head into his hands and groaned.

"What's wrong?" Edd looked at him in puzzlement.

"Free Folk might not care for titles like that, but Stannis will." Jon shook his head. "He burnt Mance Rayder alive. At best he'll do the same with her."

"And at worst?"

"He'll try to marry her off." Jon sighed. "Worse yet: he might try to marry her off to me."

The things he did for the Realm. At least he had one last task before departing north that would be considerably easier. If Denys Mallister wasn't his enemy when he got back he'd have to thank him for granting the privilege of following the northern tradition of dispensing justice in spite of the fact that he would be doing so to former brothers of the Watch.

Xxx

Alliser Thorne would not be taken to the executioner's block, but to the hangman's noose along with First Builder Othell Yarwyck and First Steward Bowen Marsh. The same couldn't be said for a handful of others included directly in their scheme who had failed to report or prevent the planned assassination by deliberate omission. Even if their blades hadn't touched Jon's flesh their involvement could not be denied, not when the Augur itself spoke of it.

Olly hadn't survived the arrows he'd taken during the fall of Castle Black. Jon was glad for it, if only so he didn't have to look the boy in the eyes again…not after the last time. The boy hadn't been entirely unjustified in his resentment against the Free Folk after what had been done to his village, but he had still taken up arms against his Lord-Commander and ignored the threat of the Others to focus on his own desire for vengeance. Jon shared that desire, yet instead of riding south to kill as many Boltons as possible he remained to ensure the Watch would be as prepared as possible for the coming winter.

The first step was to remove those who would divide the Watch.

"Have you any final words?"

He stared up at the three condemned men.

"You shouldn't be alive." Bowen Marsh released a shuddering breath, staring at Jon as if he was beholding some monstrosity instead of another man. "It's not right!"

 _If the world was right Ned Stark would be hailed as a hero, Robb Stark would have won the war, every last Lannister would lay dead and Walder Frey and every last one of his children turned into rats._

"Neither was killing me."

Othell Yarwyck appeared more resigned to his fate.

"My mother is still living in White Harbour." He said softly, only just keeping his composure with a rope digging into his neck. "Could you write her? Tell her I died fighting the-" He choked on the last word. "-fighting the Wildlings?"

 _Not entire untrue._

Of the three, Alliser Thorne was the only one who showed no signs of fear, staring down at Jon with an unreadable expression.

 _Say something. Say. Something. Say something, damn you! You fucking turncloak! You godless hypocrite! You short sighted fool! You knew what was coming as well as I did and you still ignored it! I trusted you, I gave you my uncle's position and tried to make peace with you and in turn you murdered me! Now look me in the eye and try and justify it before you die you whoreson!_

"I was left with a choice: to betray the Watch, or betray you. _"_ He spoke solemnly.

 _The son of a bitch, how dare he?_

"You brought an army of Wildlings into our lands. An army of murderers and raiders." He pressed on. "If I had to do it all over, knowing where I'd end up: I pray I'd make the right decision again."

 _You'd trade a few thousand living for a hundred thousand wights._

"I'm sure you would, Ser Alliser." It took a restraint that Jon didn't think he had to speak cordially to the condemned man.

"I fought."

 _You lurked in bitterness around Castle Black without ever once stepping beyond the Wall as First Ranger. You tormented and abused recruits for the sheer pleasure of it, because you could never face Ned Stark or Tywin Lannister or whoever else you blamed for your being here._

"I lost."

 _You lost more than you know._

"And now I rest."

 _No. No you don't. Not until I'm finished with you._

What Jon had in mind for Ser Alliser Thorne would have made Ned Stark weep in shame. It was dishonourable, it was twisted…and it was both to the benefit of the Watch and the personal satisfaction of Jon himself.

"But you, Lord Snow…you'll be fighting their battles forever."

Alliser Thorne would not live long enough to know it, but he would do more for the Seven Kingdoms in death than he ever could in life. Same to Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. They would see to it that the threat beyond the wall was finally acknowledged by those in the south.

Why else would Jon have insisted on hanging them instead of taking their heads?

He'd seen the White Walkers raise bodies by touching them and their King raise bodies with but a gesture.

But he had yet to see the White Walkers raise a body bereft of its head.

Better safe than sorry.

Longclaw cut through the rope holding up the trap door. Three sets of legs fell through the opening, three nooses tightened around three necks. Legs kicked and bodies reflexively struggled in their bindings as eyes bulged and strangled noises escaped from the condemned in their final moments.

Once they all fell still and silent, Jon waited for several tense moments before looking to Edd. "Cut them down."

Xxx

He dragged them as far as thee north facing side of the Wall before leaving them chained up. Every hour following this a group would be sent to observe the bodies for signs of animation among them.

Jon kept moving, accompanied by Ghost, Tormund and a dozen hand-picked trackers, two of them Wargs with avian skins to sink into and scout the surrounding lands. Edd had talked him into taking another six Rangers with him on the grounds that with his oath to the Watch fulfilled there had to be someone to represent it in the spirit of cooperation.

"The Vellorai have stopped pushing north." The Bright Stranger told him, moving alongside Jon through chilling silence of the Haunted Forest. "This bodes ill."

There could be only two reasons for the Free Folk to stop fleeing from the Army of the Dead.

They were unable to keep fleeing, or they were unwilling to.

Both options gave him little time to act.

"We'll find them." Jon promised. "We'll save them."

"Don't need to convince me o' that, Snow." Tormund said from a few feet back. "You just need to convince Val. You've my condolences."

Xxx

End of Chapter

For anyone wondering how Jon is able to still hold influence among the Watch in this chapter: he doesn't, but Edd does since he led the raid to retake Castle Black. Edd is in Jon's trust and defers to him much like Tormund, who commands the loyalty of the Free Folk now that Mance is presumed dead. Between these two being loyal to Jon he is essentially the de facto commander of Castle Black by this point. Add to it that Denys Mallister is convinced of his tale of being free of his oaths thanks to the Augur and therefore won't be quick to clash with Jon until he hears of what our Gravewalker has planned...or rather, has done.

As for him permitting Jon to carry out the execution of Thorne and his conspirators, he'd see it as doing a favour to him in a way that would help bring the Night's Watch back into Jon's good graces and by extension the Free Folk south of the Wall. By allowing Jon to carry it out himself he sent a message that the rest of the Watch officially denounced Thorne for his actions. By allowing an outsider to execute him in clear view of the Free Folk Mallister has the impression that the new Lord-Commander would be more willing to play nice with them.

That being said, Jon couldn't afford to take the risk that Mallister might re-evaluate keeping the Wall open to more of the Free Folk, be it for prejudicial or practical reasons. So right now he is going to simply ask forgiveness rather than permission in conducting this unauthoried ranging. He made sure to conceal his intent to range north by implying to Mallister that he intended to take part in the expedition to uncover more caches of dragon glass. To paraphrase John Sheridan in Season Three of Babylon 5: hiding a sliver of truth inside of a lie makes it easier to swallow.

I was tempted to keep Thorne and his conspirators alive, but I've already got several plot threads and characters to balance and take into consideration. I felt that I should trim any excess weight, if you get my meaning.

Read, review and do enjoy the holidays!


	6. Chapter Five: The Witch and the Wights

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

In regards to anyone who thinks that the Bright Stranger really was Bran the Builder and that I just changed it up to subvert reader expectations: do I look like Ryan Johnson to you?!

Xxx

 **Chapter Five: The Witch and the Wights**

What always struck Jon from the first time he'd stood atop the Wall was how it seemed to divide two entirely different worlds. When he had first arrived at Castle Black the grounds to the south had been relatively free of any snow or ice whereas the far side was one great frozen wasteland. As one who had been raised in the North he had grown accustomed to summer snows long before taking his vows, but the shockingly stark contrast between two lands divided by a border only several dozen meters thick had been shocking.

It wasn't until he'd truly seen what the Others, the White Walkers, the cold shadows were capable of that he'd accepted that the Wall was meant as more than just a merely physical obstacle.

It wasn't until his uncle had told him flat out that crossing was impossible for anything under the power of the White Walkers that he'd been given any kind of evidence to support that view.

Now he was learning more about the Wall and the role it played in the course of a few days spent riding North than he'd learned in almost a year as Lord-Commander and five as a brother of the Watch. The Bright Stranger kept his nights filled with lessons on the lost knowledge of what had once been simple fact in the long past ages.

"If you know all of this, why do you not remember your own name?" He asked on the third night, unable to keep his curiosity at bay any longer.

The Bright Stranger rubbed one hand through the twisting knots of his ancient beard and sat himself upon a log close to the camp site, just out of view of Tormund and his trackers so that Jon needn't transition to the Wraith World for privacy's sake. "That eludes me, but the Wall eclipses entire civilizations. So too do the magics coursing through it, and you would be mistaken to see it as something entirely inanimate. It remembers, the North remembers…and because of my bond to the Wall, I remember everything that took place near it and many things that didn't. I remember the coming of the Andals and their hollow gods, the dragons dancing atop fields of fire to finish what their Doom could not. I know that I couldn't have witnessed either, much less both, and yet the magic within the Wall and the Weirwoods have granted me this recollection. As for the modern age, most of what I know comes directly from your mind."

"If you so desired, could you…remember other things?" Jon ventured. "Smaller things? Not grand events, but…personal things?"

The Stranger saw through him like an owl spotting a fleeing cat in the night. "I don't know who your mother is, Jon Snow." He said without preamble. "More knowledge ebbs into me overtime, but most of it comes in fragments. So long as my own memory is in pieces…I fear seeking any specific answers will be futile."

He'd had little hope to hear anything better, but Jon couldn't fault himself for trying. "Then the truth died with my father." Saying it made it easier to believe, to cope with, if only slightly. "The past is behind me, Bright One. I will look to the future, to saving the Free Folk who dwell here. How will we do this?"

Any scenario in Jon's mind where they succeeded in breaking the encirclement of Wights and other fell creatures ended with thousands still being butchered before they could escape, with thousands more falling on the way back south.

"We will use our enemies' weapons against them." The Stranger answered, rising to his feet. "A bond between Wight and wielder is like the strands of a spider's web. They are firmly secured, but can still be plucked or snapped and even, with care, repositioned."

This very thought of what was proposed revolted Jon. "You would have me wield the dead?" He whispered. "No. No, I won't desecrate the fallen any further."

"The fallen don't care anymore." The Stranger countered. "Winter is coming, Jon Snow, and from what you know and have passed onto me the south is ill prepared, even worse off than before the first Long Night with only the Wall to forestall the coming storm!"

He placed his hands on Jon's shoulders, the tips of his spectral gauntlets actually felt beneath the leather jerkin and fur cloak. "The war was not won through honour and chivalry, but the understanding that in order to defeat monsters and demons one must be able to make sacrifices, especially that of one's self or one's values. For what matters to you more, Jon Snow? The honour of one, or the salvation of millions?"

Nothing that Jon had been taught or experienced could give him a rebuttal that would have given him peace of mind. The Stranger was right. He'd told himself before that he wouldn't repeat the mistakes of his family, but it was easier to say than it was to act upon.

All the honour in the world hadn't saved his family, so it wouldn't save the realms of man. Not on its own anyways. He needn't necessarily discard his father's teachings entirely, not when they could still be of aid…but he had to temper that with awareness, awareness that the rest of the world was not so inclined to share these virtues, and even those who did couldn't necessarily be trusted. He could hope for nothing and expect the worst even when he knew someone as intimately as he'd come to know his former brothers in the Watch.

It was frightening at first, realizing that the world was made of so many shades of grey that there was no hope of counting them all even if one had eternity to try.

But Jon was long past letting fear hold him back from what was needed.

"Show me." He gave in and listened to everything the Bright Stranger told him.

Xxx

On the eighth day they found evidence of the Free Folk host.

"There had to be thousands." Tormund knelt to the ground and picked up an abandoned axe of rough bronze. "And Giants, with mammoths."

"And Wights." One of his trackers added, nudging the scorched black bones left in a pile near the edge of what had once been an encampment. "But someone took clean care of them."

There wasn't a single body that hadn't been burnt. Whatever kind of person this Val was, she was leading her host with the military discipline of a seasoned commander to keep them organized, mobile and dealing with threats at their backs with such efficiency. The party had encountered pockets of Wights and dealt with them using fire and careful planning to avoid losing anyone as of yet. The Wargs proved invaluable in spotting ambushes or skirting last larger columns of the undead, which led to Jon and Tormund believing that Val must have been using a similar tactic to keep one step ahead.

Whatever the Wargs could not spot, Jon picked up the slack by looking through the lens of the Wraith World, picking out Wights hidden in the snow or among tree branches. It slowed their progress, but by the afternoon of the tenth day they had finally caught up enough to see pillars of smoke in the distance before the sun dipped low in the horizon.

Jon only saw a pool of red surrounding an island of blue at this range.

"Ten thousand," he reported to Tormund after leaping straight down from the top of the tree he'd taken as his perch, "at least. And three times as many Wights around them."

"At least." Tormund finished. "I think we might need a little more fire."

"We only need to make a hole in the Wights' encirclement big enough to break through." Jon sharply beckoned for the rest of the party to gather around as he began to draw in the snow using a stick, creating one circle within another before jabbing a twig down to mark the group's position. "I can do that, possibly, but when I do we'll have minutes at best before the Wights reorganize. We need your people ready to move when that happens."

"Only the old, the sick, the wounded'n the children will have trouble with that." Tormund said. "But if they have mammoths-"

"They could ride them." Jon guessed.

"Aye, a dozen or more for each if their Giants let'em."

"Could they be persuaded?" Jon asked, now wishing he'd had the foresight to bring Wun-Wun along.

"If they're stickin' with Val's people, might be she's the one who can persuade them." Tormund shrugged. "Convince her and maybe they'll let it happen."

That just left reaching Val.

"Wait here and keep watch for anything." Jon gave a low whistle, prompting Ghost to seemingly manifest from the snow caked surroundings, true to the direwolf's name. "With me, boy. We need to stay quiet and move fast." He rubbed Ghost behind the ears. "Ready?"

The direwolf shot ahead and vanished into the woods with barely a crunch of snow under his paws.

"That thing scares me sometimes." Tormund admitted. "Woke up for watch and found it starin' at me. Got a hauntin' look, your wolf does."

"He does." Jon agreed. "But don't worry, he stopped wanting to eat you after you brought an entire army to my aid."

"Only after?" Tormund asked, but Jon was gone before he finished speaking. "…startin' to think all those tales of Starks bein' wolves on two legs might not be so crazy now."

Xxx

The Wights were shuffling about in the dark, covering all paths the Free Folk could have taken to escape without stumbling over roots and unsteady terrain. For places where Giants and Mammoths would find difficulty treading or the sick, wounded and old would need to be carried instead of placed on sleds there were smaller patrols, just enough to chase any stragglers or deserters away or warn the rest of their horde if the Free Folk host tried to break through.

Luckily, they weren't looking for any Free Folk in the tree branches high above.

"When the Others raise the dead they must divide their attention between each new Wight." The Bright Stranger explained, perched on a thick branch next to Jon, who took advantage of his new inhuman balance and agility to almost glide across the forest. "The more Wights they personally raise, the more time and effort they must expend coordinating them. The stronger ones among them can manage hundreds, but even they must find a way to ease the weight upon them. They do this by creating a specialized Wight, an officer who retains fragments of what they once were and leads when their master cannot."

"How do I tell them apart?"Jon whispered.

"You've met one of them before: in the Lord-Commander's quarters on the night you burned your hand."

Othor, one of the two rangers to accompany his uncle Benjen years ago. He'd risen as a Wight and almost strangled Jon to death before being set ablaze. That was what had convinced Jon that the Watch still held a great and noble purpose in fighting an enemy unlike any found in the south.

And yet most other Wights he'd met were easier to fight off, many reduced to little more than bones with flesh hanging off of them or even less than that. Jon had attributed the difference to Othor's body being fresh by comparison, but it made sense for the Others to dispatch more than just two regular Wights to infiltrate Castle Black from within. Why else would they have left the two corpses to be found so close to the Wall if not to tempt the Watch to bring them back for burial?

"We call them _goric_ , ghouls." The Stranger pointed. "There. Among the shamblers."

He was pointing out a loose formation of Wights shuffling through the undergrowth, blue eyes staring blankly for signs of prey. There was a Thenn among them based on the scaled bronze armour he wore, or one who used to be a Thenn. From his size Jon almost mistook him for an Umber. Where the others shuffled clumsily it walked with relatively more grace, stepping carefully over obstacles and observing the ground with curious eyes that he'd never seen from a Wight before.

"Goric." The Stranger growled. "He leads this group."

"And what you have in mind for him won't alert his masters?" Jon asked cautiously.

"Only if he has time to send out a call, or the one that raised him tries calling out." The Stranger nodded. "Move quickly and don't let him call out. Ignore the shamblers if you can."

"Aye." Jon took a breath, latched onto Longclaw's hilt and stepped off of the branch.

The forest turned into a blur of dark colours around him, then into a blur of white as he landed atop the Goric, knocking it down onto its front. Spectral fire danced around his free hand and Longclaw's blade as he pulled the Valyrian steel sword free and took the arms off of the nearest Wight, which had reacted quickly and took a swing at him with a rusted axe. Jon heard the sound of hurried steps on the snow around him as his free hand clamped down on the Goric's head.

The nearest Wights were bearing down on him, their blades poised to butcher him. His instincts screamed to rise, to fight for his life, but the Stranger's advice echoed in his ears and in the final split second he kept his hand on the Goric's head and declared, his voice intertwined with the Stranger's, whose shade appeared at his side and matched his hold on the undead officer.

" _ **OBED MIN AGOR!**_ "

 _Obey me now._

The words flew from Jon's mouth, but it was the Stranger who was speaking.

The Goric's jaw was wide open, the scream it would have sent out died in its throat as its blue eyes faded…and became bright green. The surrounding Wights stopped dead in place, one with its axe hovering just above Jon's bowed neck. The Wielder slowly pulled back and shuffled backwards a few steps, joining its fellow undead in standing perfectly still.

Jon allowed the Goric to rise to its feet, but kept Longclaw up to be safe. It slowly turned to stare at him with emerald irises before the flat of the rough sword in its hand was slapped against the bronze plates on its chest.

" **Ei obed,** " it spoke, a rasping voice passing between its decayed teeth, " **mu Magnar.** "

 _I obey, my Magnar…my Lord…my King…_

In the Old Tongue, Magnar could have been applied to the ruler of a small Keep or one who ruled vast stretches of land including the holds of other Magnars. The term for Kings and Queens had come long after the Old Tongue was adopted by the First Men. As the language evolved the two terms became distinct from one another to reflect the higher authority of Kings, but if this Goric withheld the memories of a Thenn it would have possibly held to the older forms of Old Tongue from before the days of Kings, once in life and now in death.

"When you hear my call, draw the other Wights nearby to this place." Jon ordered. "Tell your former masters that a number of the Free Folk have broken through where you are, at least several hundred. Lead them as far out as you can."

The Goric bowed its head. " **Por'tu ord, mu Magnar.** "

 _By your command, my Magnar._

Jon left them and raced north-east towards the edge of the Free Folk encampment. He'd circled around as far as he dared, avoiding the pale and bright figures of the Others when he spotted them through the Wraith World, shockingly bright silhouettes among comparatively dim minions.

Now he had the harder task of talking to Free Folk who would more than likely try to kill him.

He stopped short of a perimeter marked by stakes, logs and torches, staying in the shadows of a tree line bordering a fifty foot gap of open ground where trees had been chopped down or ripped out of their roots-doubtlessly the work of the host's giants and mammoths. They'd assembled a hasty but sturdy rampart that would at least slow down an attack, an impressive feat given how they'd been harassed endlessly.

Jon Crowley stepped into view with his hands held up, palms open.

A man in furs spotted him from where he'd tied himself to the branch of a tree behind the line. "A scout!" He shouted and nocked an arrow, dragon glass tipped judging by the head's texture.

The arrow flew towards him. Jon felt it the moment it began to fly, felt every nerve in his body scream and quickly threw himself to one side. The dragonglass tip tore through his cloak and pinned it to the tree behind him.

 _Damn it, man!_

The archer scrambled for another arrow from a quiver hanging next to him. Down below several figures gathered at the camp's edge with spears, axes and torches in hand.

"Don't shoot!" Jon bellowed, still keeping his hands in plain sight. "I'm here to help!"

"He looks like a Crow!" One of the warriors glared. "I say shoot him again."

"Shoot me and you'll never get out of here." Jon half-lied.

Even if he had to kill a few of them to make them stop, however much he didn't wish to, he wouldn't abandon the rest to die. But killing any would be counterproductive to his mission, so diplomacy remained his best option.

"Enough of that!" An older man, a greybeard with a large axe snarled at the younger man. "You heard what Val said."

"Didn't they _help_ us enough at Hardhome?" The younger man snapped impertinently before the older man, in a show of strength, cracked him across the face with the flat of his axe and flung him to the ground.

"You! Crow!" The greybeard pointed at Jon. "Name yourself."

Jon stepped into the torch light. "I am Jon Snow." He said.

"The King Crow?" The greybeard looked him over. "Thought you'd have died with our people at Hardhome."

"I escaped with five thousand others." Jon answered, slowly lowering his hands to his sides. "Ever since then I've been working to find survivors of the slaughter. I was told about your host, how you were being herded north. I've come to help you escape."

"And why should we believe that?" A woman demanded, spear poised and ready.

"Because I just made my way across Wight country to speak with you." Jon said. "And because your only alternative is to deal with thousands of Wights that are gathering in greater numbers every day. Will you try to parley with the Others and their minions, or with the living?"

The Free Folk muttered amongst themselves. Jon noted one of them slipping away after the greybeard whispered to him. Eventually they settled for waiting for Val's word, which came precious minutes later before they let him in.

Mance Rayder's camp had held almost ten times the number of people and had carried a certain energy to it, a momentum born from an entire nation, an entire culture on the move. There'd been confidence in a hundred thousand marching towards salvation, now there was a little over ten thousand just trying to buy themselves one more day. He saw wary and tired eyes from sunken, malnourished faces glancing up from fires; mammoth bones in a pile where the least capable or most sickly must have been put down and scavenged for meat. Giants stomped through just as before, but where Wun-Wun and his kin had come to treat Jon warmly in their own way these ones flashed him ugly scowls.

"A Crow…"

"The King Crow!"

"How'd he get here?"

"He escaped Hardhome…"

"How many of us didn't?"

"Shh! Look!"

The procession came to the heart of the camp where a temporary shelter of timbers had been erected. Aged women with painted faces crept out from the interior and examined Jon with wide eyes, their hands hovering close but never making contact with him.

"Something has befallen you, King Crow."

The women scattered, revealing a positively ancient woman, her bony frame adorned with furs and feathers while a band of leather was pulled across her eyes. She hobbled towards him, her path cleared with such speed to reflect the reverence held by the surrounding men and women for this elder.

"Something has." Jon agreed. "How do you know?"

"A wood witch and her coven." The Stranger appeared at his side. "Speak carefully, Jon Snow. Once they would have held no power, but now…I feel that it is not by luck or the Others' playful antics that these people have evaded death."

"I may no longer have eyes to see," the crone powered her outstretched hand, "but Mother Mole knows, Mother Mole sees as the Forest Gods see." She pointed it to one of the two trees the shelter was built between…Weirwoods! Jon quickly looked around and saw that the entire camp was built among a grove of Weirwood trees…with the two at its centre bearing the carved visages of Heartrees.

"You hear them, you do." Mother Mole snickered. "Val! Come, child. Come and meet our guest, bring bread and salt."

Another figure, tall an lithe, clad in white with a billowing cloak draped around their form stepped into view. "We've little enough of both left to feed our own with, witch. The Crow will have to accept our word, for that's all we can afford to share freely."

Jon felt his heart flutter as the hood was lifted to reveal a golden haired beauty, feral and lacking the soft roundness found in southern Ladies…just like Ygritte. Before he could stare for too long he averted his eyes back towards Mother Mole. "I'll accept it. We have little time so I must speak quickly."

"You'd better have brought another army of riders with you, Crow." Val said. "Many a man and woman here would see you dead for your deception."

"Would you pursue a grudge while the true enemy stands at your gates?" Jon demanded. "I've come for the same reason that I went to Hardhome: to finish Mance Rayder's mission and get all of you south of the Wall. Thousands of your people live safely beyond it and hundreds flock there, but with every week that passes fewer arrive than before. Yours is possibly the largest group left in these lands and the White Walkers will pursue you until you can run no more."

"We've come to accept that." Val nodded. "We had little choice but to when we thought we'd been abandoned up here." She looked him over. "Mance wasn't joking: you are a pretty Crow. How'd you get through the dead prowling these woods?"

"Carefully." Jon replied, ignoring the snort and cackle from Mother Mole. "Tormund Giantsbane and a small company wait to the south-east. We have a plan to distract the Wights, but we need you and your people ready to move immediately or we'll lose our only chance."

"He's lying." A man tugged a crudely shaped stone knife from his many pouches. "Crows can't be trusted. Mance knew that! Let's gut him and be done with it."

"Put that thing away before you cut your own pecker off you damned fool." Val commanded. "I may not have shared bread and salt with this one, but I was serious when I gave him my word and this is _my_ camp. If you can't remember that you can go sleep with the Wights tonight."

He looked ready to argue the point before something behind Jon made his eyes almost bulge from their sockets. Jon had felt Ghost padding along behind them, using the shadows or the snow to remain out of view. Given how the Free Folk huddled around their fires in sobering silence, just waiting for death or a miracle, it had been relatively easy for the Direwolf to go unseen by most. Any who did notice the albino spectre would only have caught a faint glimpse or mistook him for one of the skins of the wargs who were tolerated for their practical use.

Jon rested his hand on the direwolf's head as Ghost came to stand at his side.

"Tread carefully when you make threats." He warned. "Make enough of them and you'll find yourself bereft of friends who could help you."

The stone knife plopped down into the mixture of snow and dirt.

"Mance told me how hard it was to unite your tribes." Jon said following a heavy silence. "Ninety odd tribes with their own languages, their own grudges, their own gods even. Half wanted to massacre the other half. The Thenns hated the Hornfoots, who hated the Ice-River clans and everybody hated the cave tribes. He told me what he said to make you work together, even if only for this one purpose, and I'll say it again in his place."

He looked up as several giants gathered around, glowering silently with their stony, unreadable faces.

"The truth: you will all die if you don't get south of the Wall." Jon spoke up so that others could hear him, others who trickled in from surrounding fires. "He didn't expect you to like one another, to forget old grievances. He just expected you to get your heads out of your arses and do one thing that needed to be done, one thing that mattered more than any battle or war from ten or a hundred years ago with the Watch or between any tribe here: live."

Val crossed her arms and fixed him with a curious stare. "Pretty words from a pretty Crow." She nodded. "My good-brother was a fool, but even fools can be right about something. So tell me, Jon Snow, what do you have in mind for getting me and mine away from here?"

He had their attention, now he had to earn just enough of their trust to convince them to follow him. By now Jon could see that he'd drawn in quite a crowd who looked to him with varying amounts of curiosity or distrust…or both.

"First I need you to get everyone ready to move out on my signal." He said. "Anyone who can run will run, anyone who can't gets carried, be it on horse, mammoth or anything else you have. The Wights will chase after us day and night, but Tormund Giantsbane and I have a plan to slow them down just long enough to give your people a chance at reaching the Wall."

Protests were immediately raised.

"The Wights will cut us to pieces!"

"It's fucking crazy!"

"He'll lead us to the slaughter!"

It was Mother Mole who restored order. "SILENCE!" She shrieked and cracked the base of a Weirwood staff against the ground, bringing about a sudden quiet to the gathering. "The gods favour this man for him to have come this far. If you would rather sit here and die then so be it, but I follow my visions…and they showed me a white wolf bearing down upon our enemy while wreathed in flames green like that of the lands of the southrons and Andals. I will follow him. All who follow me will follow him. If you are smart then _you_ will follow him too."

The same man from before spat on the ground and snatched his discarded knife up. "Piss on your visions." He stowed the weapon and glared venomously at Jon. "Last time we let Crows in we lost most of our people. Time before that? He betrayed us."

Jon maintained an unflinching posture to these words, true though they might be even if they were grossly distorted. "Then go." He dared, pulling Longclaw out just far enough for the blade to gleam in the fire light. "Go your own way and see how far you get. Or stay and see how long you last while trying to make an enemy of me. Choose quickly, for I've suffered a potential foe at my back once before and have resolved never to repeat that mistake."

This ultimatum sucked the fire out of the man, whose courage born of blind hatred left him as he found himself confronted with two equally undesirable choices. Those surrounding him realized that they would find no help, surrounded by Mother Mole's supporters, and dispersed away from this lone heckler.

"Or," Jon let Longclaw slide back into its scabbard, "you can take the one path that gives you even a chance of living past tonight."

This merciful offer was accepted with a nod from the shivering man.

"I would have just taken his head and been done with it." The Stranger grumbled. "But…compassion does have its time in the sun on one day where fear would on another."

A lesson that Tywin Lannister may have found to be all too accurate.

"Alright then, Snow, so what will you do to keep the dead from falling upon us as we flee?" Val inquired.

"When your people are ready to leave, I will draw their attention with something they can't ignore." Jon pointed in the direction he had come from to reach the camp. "After that, you must wait until the Wights covering the southern approach have thinned out enough, then make a break for it. Charge with Giants, Mammoths, anything that can run the shamblers down and clear a path for your people. Beyond that, Giantsbane will meet you and lead you to safety from there."

"And what of you?" She pressed.

"Me?" One corner of Jon's mouth twitched upward ever so slightly. "I'm the distraction, so I must remain until you are all away."

This drew sceptical whispers from the Free Folk before Mother Mole silenced them with one sharply raised hand. "He speaks truthfully." She declared. "Here the gods have delivered us one who is willing to place himself at risk so that we might live on, and in thanks we have met him with threat and blade. I shall not spit in their faces, nor that of their messenger. Me and mine will be ready to leave when the time comes."

As she hobbled away, followed by her procession, she called over her shoulder. "And all of the giants and their mammoths are with us!"

One of the two giants nodded, giving a low rumble as he and his kinsman stared at Jon.

" _Crow._ " The first giant growled and followed after Mother Mole, followed by the second.

When Val looked at Jon again, it was with the eyes of one who was impressed…and yet still wary. "You've convinced Mother Mole, but I'm still convinced that she sees the gods as much as she sees the tip of her own nose. Lucky for you she's got the largest following and the giants like her more than they like me. I'll get my people ready to move when you say, Snow." She stepped up close to him and grabbed him by his tunic. "Do right by us and we'll do the same for you. Betray us like you did before…and I won't let you live to speak of it."

Ygritte could have killed him with any of the three arrows she'd put in him as he fled. He still didn't know whether it had been mercy or the gods intervening that kept her from placing her shots anywhere fatal. But something told him that Val wouldn't try something as impersonal as shooting him from a distance if he ever gave her reason to keep her promise.

The worst part was that now that he wasn't even sure that mortal blades would truly kill him, this potentially meant that she wouldn't have to worry about accidentally killing him too quickly.

Before his betrayal he might have taken this threat in stride, but now he felt a roaring anger build in his chest. In the last several years he had only one goal in mind, one singular purpose that was free of political interest and objectively for more than just his own benefit. It was to fight _the_ war, the only war that had ever mattered or ever would, outshining any other conflict in all of the history of every civilization to ever rise or fall. It was to fight against death itself, against an inhuman horde of monsters and undead thralls led by masters who butchered and enslaved any from the poorest popper to the highest king to enter their sights.

And yet, despite his intention being clear…everyone on every side seemed keen on calling him a traitor. The Night's Watch once accused him of being a deserter despite how he'd so willingly returned to Castle Black, the Free Folk accused him of betraying them right over the fresh body of an old man whose only crime had been living far enough north to make a valid target in their eyes.

 _Traitortraitortraitorbastardsonofatraitor!_

Something in him snapped. "I was never on your side before Hardhome. Never." Jon coldly rebuffed her and forced her hand away from him. "I'm on the side of the living and you, Val, are the latest in a long line of living, breathing people to call me a traitor. "

Their noses were almost touching now.

"So if you think my offer is any less genuine now than it was at Hardhome," he hissed, "Then by all means: stay and die for all I care."

Val's eyes darkened with a barely constrained wrath as her hand partly slipped beneath the folds of her white cloak. She slowly took a step back and pulled the hand back out into the open, leaving whatever weapon she'd been reaching for.

"We're taking the offer this time, Snow." She stepped around him, eyeing him like he was an actual wolf ready to pounce upon her. "I just want to know that I'm putting their lives in the right hands." Her guarded expression fell away, betraying the look of someone who was simply…tired. "My sister…Mance's wife…I put her in his hands and she died as he tried taking your Wall. I've got her boy, he's survived long enough that by now he'd have a name and now he's got no parents to name him and he might still yet die by some Wight's blade."

Jon was struck with a profound sense of guilt like a knife to his…well, perhaps the analogy would be in poor taste. In his anger he'd forgotten a few truths: the first being that he wasn't the only one trying to fight against the Long Night's return, but merely the one most misfortunate enough to be caught between warring factions. Val had to pick up the pieces of Mance Rayder's failed plan and try to make it work without any hope of survival beyond the next evening. All the while she must have dealt with similar divisions in the ranks only to lack the near universal reverence Mance had commanded among his people.

And on top of that, she had to protect her nephew. The one thing he was thankful for was that none of his siblings, those that he knew to be alive, were anywhere near this forsaken wasteland and it's prowling shamblers or _goric_ and their cold puppet masters.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I just sometimes feel like no matter what I do to try and save anyone from this nightmare-"

"Everyone and their own damned stupidity get in the way?" Val asked, smiling humourlessly. "My sympathies, Snow. I had to cut a few throats before any talk about killing me in my sleep or worse ended."

The weeping, red face of Janos Slynt flashed in his mind.

"I had to kill a few men who thought I shouldn't lead." He admitted. "When does the infighting ever end?"

"When there's less than three men or women left living under the sun." Val stepped back into the shade of her shelter. "With how hard you are to kill, I'd wager you'd be one of them and spend the rest of your days keeping the other two from knifing one another."

Were he still a mortal man at that moment Jon might have disagreed, but now? He imagined a future where his paradoxical nature allowed him to endure the coming darkness, forced to watch as fragile, mortal men and women around him wasted away from hunger and disease or struck down by blue eyed demons in the dark. He would be the only one left by the time the dawn returned in this hypothetical world, an echo of the dominant people who once walked from the highest mountains to the lowest caverns, unable to be touched by disease or hunger and resilient enough to save himself but nobody else.

Immortal and alone, a living ghost on a dead world with only more ghosts for company.

This new possibility manifested itself as Jon Snow's greatest fear from that moment forward.

Xxx

End of chapter


	7. Chapter Six: A Dance of Ice and Shadow

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Minor side note: I only realized after looking back that there was an integral scene which I had removed and forgotten to slip back in. In hindsight it might work out better but I feel the need to clarify for anybody with a sharp eye.

After rescuing his uncle Benjen, Jon had commanded him to report to Castle Black's gates the next day. As you all know I skipped forward a week after the Fall of Castle Black and never followed up on that detail. Well I've decided that Benjen did report as ordered and he did speak with Jon just outside the gate on the Wall where Jon shared his intentions with him and gave Benjen instructions of his own. I won't spoil what they were but you'll find out in the next chapter.

Also, I've decided that from now on I'll make an effort to respond openly to reviews. I'll take any reviews that are posted for a chapter within a day or two of it being posted and type responses to them at the bottom of the chapter.

Xxx

 **Chapter Six: A Dance of Ice and Shadow**

Were they in the south it might have taken far longer to prepare, but those who were born and raised north of the Wall were used to being on the move. Even the less nomadic tribes could break camp faster than well oiled companies of Andal Knights and levies, as proven by the ten thousand-some ragged refugees and three hundred giants. Anything that would be of no use was abandoned, fires remained lit so as not to tip off the enemy to any changes in the camp's activities; the Wargs were kept on watch all the same and had confirmed Jon's claim regarding the Giantsbane's presence to the south-east.

"Tie them tightly." Val ordered a group helping the old and infirm onto a mammoth which wore an improvised saddle. "If any of them fall off they're good as dead, so check your knots." They nodded and murmured their compliance hastily as they got back to work.

As she looked around Val felt almost sad to abandon the shelter of the Weirwood grove. The twin Heart Trees on their mound of dirt overlooking the rest of the camp had come to feel more like home than Whitetree, granting her the feeling of safety when it had been long denied to her. Yet this departure had been a long time coming, as foretold by Mother Mole before they even settled.

 _The dead will not lightly tread in the eyes of the gods, girl! They will wait for their masters, as shall we wait for our chance._

And now here was that chance in the form of a pretty, dark haired man with stormy eyes that spoke of experience well beyond his years. When Jon Snow spoke she felt like it wasn't some up-jumped boy of a Crow talking to her but a low chilling wind which foretold of a coming blizzard.

And only fools dared to ignore the winds of winter.

The pretty Crow was off away from the rest, seated with his loyal Direwolf by his side and staring north-east. Curiosity drew her away from the crowd and towards him, but before she got too close the Direwolf lifted its head and its red eyes pierced her like twin knives.

 _Tread carefully, two-legged one._ Those eyes said. _Plant your dagger quickly, else my fangs will find your soft throat first._

The Wolf was protective of its master, far beyond basic loyalty found in dogs or even the other skins of Wargs. It was quick to spot anyone who tread too close, growled to warn away any who got closer and bared its fangs to one who was too foolish to heed the first two warnings.

 _This wolf acts like someone might tear Snow away from it any second now._

Val stopped and met its eyes, appearing significantly braver than she felt. Then Snow took notice of his companion's stare and followed it to her. His grey eyes darted to one side, to empty space, and then back to her.

"La- Val," the honorific was caught in his throat, only slipping out by mistake to begin with, "does all go well with your people?"

The Direwolf lowered its head to rest on Snow's leg, and Val finally felt comfortable enough to step closer. "We had some holdouts at first." She reported. "But when they saw the giants and mammoths were going, barely half a hundred remained. They changed their minds quick when they realized we weren't waiting on them."

"Good." Jon nodded and stood up, shaking some fresh white powder off of his cloak. "I'll go prepare the distraction." He patted Ghost between the ears as the Direwolf gave a soft noise of distress. "You have to stay with them, boy. Guide them out of this waste. I'll be behind you."

"Are you a skin changer too?" Val asked. "That wolf of yours watches us so suspiciously I thought you used his eyes to watch your back."

Jon shook his head. "Maybe. I sometimes dreamt that I was a wolf racing through these very forests some short years ago." His hand wandered over his unbeating heart. "I haven't dreamt that way recently though…not for several weeks now."

"A shame." Val's voice noticeably softened. "Most don't like 'em, but way I always saw when it comes to skin changers: you don't need the skin of an animal to be dangerous or unworthy of trust."

"Some of the most high born nobles down south aren't worthy." Jon clenched his teeth in a forced smile. "Same with the kings."

"Like the one who rode us down at the Wall?" Val could see the stag amidst a flaming heart framed clearly in her mind.

"Stannis Baratheon was the only one who answered our call for aid." Jon shrugged his fur covered shoulders. "The way I see it that makes him better than the rest: a reaver on an island and a boy ruled by his advisors."

"There's why we choose our king." Val said. "You all just pop crowns on the head of whichever wailing welp who the gods allow to crawl from their mother's cunt and pray then that he turns out to be good."

Her choice of words perfectly described the Targaryen dynasty.

 _Each time a Targaryen is born the gods would flip a coin and the world would hold its breath._

Mad kings, great kings, mediocre kings, average kings…they'd shown every shade of good and bad that could be found in a monarch until Aerys the Mad. Joffrey Baratheon was said to be mad before he was struck down at his own wedding, his brother was described as timid and slow minded, easily malleable to the whims of whoever surrounded him. Now Stannis, worshipper of the Red God and prone to sacrificing anyone with a drop of royal blood in their veins, might also be mad.

"Every time a new king or queen is crowned the gods will toss a coin and all the kingdoms will hold their breath." Jon said. "Once the saying only applied to the dragons, now it might as well extend to all monarchs."

"Save the ones who prove themselves and get chosen." Val pointed out. "Mance was a fool, like I said, but he was a fool who we needed. Now you're the fool we need."

"I'm not seeking to name myself your next King." Jon retorted.

"And I'm not looking to name you one." Val shrugged. "Just warning you that if this works you'll have a lot of very happy people, same as Mance when he was gathering us together. He didn't do it without fighting a few battles first, some against the living and some against the dead."

"Speak plainly or not at all." Jon demanded.

"I know what your offer was: come south, settle your Gift, tend the lands, fix your castles, man the Wall, keep the peace…and I know what your King Stannis wants." Her eyes narrowed. "We won't march in the wars of others, least of all to the one who burnt Mance alive. But I've heard of the ones who hold your lands now, the Boltons…the flayers. We've our own stories to tell of them and I doubt they'd leave us in peace, but with Mance dead you'd need someone the tribes will follow by choice. Did Tormund and his people follow you out here by choice?"

"They also came to my rescue by choice." Jon confirmed. "Them and the Giants who made it past the Wall."

"There you have it, then." Val nodded and began to make her way back to the column of Mammoths being loaded with passengers. "You want us to help you fight anything, Jon Snow? Then show that you're the one who we want to follow."

Jon watched her go, wincing as the wound over his heart burned. Speaking with Val was painful, but not because of her demeanour towards him. It was like talking to Ygritte, only she had been a lot more vulgar towards him at first whereas Val hadn't made one insinuation or insult. It was…like seeing Ygritte for real, after peeling past the layers of scorn and harsh laughter she wore to cover the fear she had for her people. Beneath it all she had been tired from running for so long and was hurt when he wouldn't betray his vows for her.

 _Would that I could turn back time and stop that arrow…_

"She speaks wisely." The Stranger manifested at his side, standing at the exact spot Jon had glanced towards when Val initially approached. "This is a war that cannot be won through birth right alone, and this Stannis Baratheon is not a very popular ruler outside of the fire worshippers and his sell-swords. We can't depend on him alone, we need an army of our own and we can't be selective as to where it comes from."

"If we lead an army loyal to me alone it could put us at odds with Stannis." Jon pointed out. "We can't afford more enemies."

"Think, boy!" The Stranger growled. "If the _vellorai_ follow you, you can give Stannis what he wants: the numbers needed to vanquish the Red Kings' seed and put the North to rights. With that he will have what he needs to continue his war in the south while we look to the true conflict here."

If the stag bested the flayed man it would give Stannis recognition that he'd lacked ever since the Battle of the Blackwater: the loyalty of the largest of the Kingdoms, a power base from which he could resume his war for the Iron Throne. Jon could only speculate on what would follow next, but if Stannis proved that he could secure a kingdom with the Iron Bank's pittance that bought four thousand mercenaries into the fight he could earn their confidence and full financial support.

One way or another they would see their gold returned, and Jon had learned just how much was owed through Ser Davos, just prior to Thorne's Mutiny.

If Stannis proved to be the safest bet they would give him enough gold to buy any number of mercenary companies, giving him the ranks to march south. But first he had to beat the Boltons and their allies in the midst of the cold North where the bulk of his army was at a disadvantage.

Jon needed Stannis to win, and Stannis needed the Free Folk to help him win.

Ergo, Jon needed the Free Folk to follow him of their own free will.

He knew this because the Stranger knew it, or maybe it was the other way around. He couldn't deny the plain logic

"All this relies on our plan working." Jon pointed out.

"It will work."

"They might not take the bait."

"They will if their own thralls report it to them." The Stranger dissolved from view. "We must go. The time is nigh."

Xxx

From the west, a White Walker gazed out at the pool of light and warmth that tainted its peoples' lands. It rode upon not a reanimated equine, but one of the creatures that had been long ago reforged and bred by the oldest of magics with one purpose: to serve as mounts of war that struck terror into the short lived little monkeys called Man. The _arifi's_ fangs twitched as its crystalline eyes gazed yearningly, filled with a primal hunger that had been introduced to override the initially bending instincts of what its species used to be.

The Walker brushed one hand across its flank, silently urging patience. It would have its feast from the few found unsuitable for the Cold Gift tonight, any whose bodies would not survive the inevitable exodus. The mount was kept well fed, but opportunities to feed it fresh meat came far and few between ever since the Slaughter by the Sea.

Five others of its kind were spread out to surround the Man-Camp from all directions, waiting for time or fear to wear down the defenders. Each commanded around five thousand Cold-Touched, mostly the primitive _zaric_ and versatile animals led by several dozen _goric_. A token force to clear up the last of the taint north of the Divide before they pressed south.

 _The monkeys are strangely silent tonight._

 _Have they put an end to it and saved us the trouble?_

 _I'd hope not! I wish to dance and bathe in warm blood tonight._

The White Walker filtered through the mass of exchanged thoughts and checked over the _goric_ directly under its influence. Echoes of the men and women they used to be were brushed aside as he directly occupied their skins and surveyed their surroundings, listening to the zaric shambling about.

 _Why do we not simply fall upon them now?! They are few, we are many!_

The Walker returned to its true body and interjected. _There will be fire beyond the Divide, fire in glass and air, as was foretold._ It reminded the impetuous speaker. _No skins can be wasted if they needn't be. Starve them out, tire them, take every last one of them that we can._

The reminder of their orders subdued the dissatisfied grumbles, but only for now. This was the result of trusting such a mundane task to the youngest of their kind fit for leading. The Walker had been tasked with keeping them from throwing away skins unnecessarily and found this to be a challenge in and of itself. They were petulant children compared to him, born into their new state such a short time ago that they were less than infants by the standards of its kind. It had been ancient when the Divide rose and had been trusted to teach each new generation of those touched directly by the King's Gift, but now it lacked the time it would have used to sort out their impulses and excesses.

Suddenly a howl went out from the far side of the camp. It was the call to arms for the Others, the battle cry of the goric.

 _Here! Here!_ The young one cried jovially and urged their arifi forward, scampering across bulging root and rock jutting from the frozen ground. _They come to me!_

The Walker reached out towards the warrior and tried to link their minds so that it could see what they saw, but found a barrier of euphoria interfering. It could only catch glimpses of battle, of zaric throwing themselves as shrouded figures as blades flashed in the moon light and the goric sent out its cry.

 _Cut them down!_

 _After them!_

 _NO!_ The Walker roared, but went unheard as the younger commanders to the north and south of the battle moved their forces as one, pushing inwards to catch the fleeing Men in a pincer. _Hold position! Do not break the circle!_

Its words were lost in a whirlwind of bloodlust. It urged its arifi forward and charged down the slope towards the tree line. The Walker caught glimpses through the disobedient young one's eyes as they charged out into an enclosure where the fighting had been thick, leaving dozens of bodies strewn about with only a few zaric and their lone goric standing.

 _Awwww already dead!_

 _No fair!_

 _I want blood! I want blood!_

Then the Walker experienced through the younger commander's vision the shock of its life. The Cold-Touched still standing turned to him with venomous green eyes that pierced all shadows. Then the rest on the forest floor rose up without any prompt with similar glares as they threw themselves into the wall of skins that had come expecting easy prey. Their weapons blazed with emerald fire that cut down anything in their path and very nearly cut down the commander before he parried an axe swing away with his crystal blade.

 _What is this?!_ They cried before their arifi's head exploded, victim of an arrow that burst every single one of its eyes and shattered its outer shell in a flash of green. This threw the commander from their mount, but they succeeded in rising to their feet and cutting several of the greenskins down before another figure entered their vision.

Wreathed in light, it appeared as if from thin air and sank a blade wreathed in the same emerald embers through the young one's chest. The Walker lost the link entirely but heard the shriek of shattering ice as one of its kind gave its death cries. By the time it reached the battleground it found the forest floor strewn with hundreds of skins charred to crisps and many more still fighting, distinguished only by those who wielded the spectral fire.

 _Kill them! Kill them!_

The zaric still outnumbered the greenskins and sank their blades into them from multiple angles, but were forced to dismember them piecemeal much like the Men would have been forced to do without their earth-fire or true-fire. In the time it took for them to put one down it would cut down three or four. To make matters worse it seemed that others were popping up from among the ranks of the skins that flooded into this section of the forest.

Then it saw the thing that had been burnt into its mind through the eyes of the fallen commander. The warrior was robed in the same black as the Watchmen but fought unlike any Man or beast. A sword that held the same deadly ring as dragon steel was further augmented by the spectral flames that allowed the warrior to cut through zaric and reduce them to burnt husks with a single cut. The fighter reacted with speed that permitted him to take on as many as four foes at once, though occasional blows slipped through and seemed to inflict minuscule injury that didn't even slow him down.

The Walker raised its crystal blade with a shriek and charged forward, leading a wave of reinforcements into the battle. The Watchman turned to see hundreds of shapes swarming out of the darkness to slam into the edge of the melee and begin washing over the entangled fighters, caring little for what fell under their blades as long there were fewer of the tainted greenskins afterwards.

There was fear in the Watchman's eyes, if only briefly before it was replaced by a resolve as hard and cold as steel as the grey orbs wandered to a section of the battle close by, homing in on a goric that had once been a watchman much like him.

Then he was gone, vanishing from one spot and reappearing within reach of the goric. He batted aside its axe with ease and clamped his free hand down on its skull. The spectral flames coursed down through his arm and into the cold-touched. The Walker was too slow to close the distance before the magic supplanted the enchantment that had originally raised the goric, turning its blue eyes green and spreading this effect to the zaric directly tied to it…all several dozen of them.

The Walker shrieked and urged his mount, which lunged at the Watchman and pounced down upon him with all of its weight. His dragon steel blade sank into its underside, pinned beneath the now dead weight.

Reaching down, the Walker grabbed the Watchman by his dark hair and poised its blade for a fatal strike. " **Morak abarri!** " It snarled before it felt a burning agony spread across its side. It shrieked and looked down to see an axe blade buried into its side, wielded by the newly tainted goric which hissed before the Walker took its head off with a single sweep of its blade.

Xxx

This distraction was all the time that Jon needed to get a hand free and jab upwards into the Walker's face where he clung tight, feeling the blistering cold flesh crack and bubble beneath his palm before the Walker threw itself away, hands pressed over the affected area while Jon lifted the dead ice-spider up enough to crawl free.

By the time he'd found his footing and pulled Longclaw free of the slain aberration the Walker clambered to its feet, one hand still covering one half of its face. When it removed the hand Jon could see the full extent of the damaged is very touch had done. One entire side of the Walker's face was warped far out of its original shape, with the left eye socket entirely gone and one sharp and pronounced cheek bones lumpish and drooping. The imprint of Jon's hand had been left upon the glacial demon's visage to complete the mutilation.

But it was not anywhere near dead yet.

Taking up its crystal sword, the Walker shrieked and lunged towards him, cutting down two of his wights with a single swing and then chopping downwards. Jon redirected the blow off to the side and swung Longclaw up towards its face only for its free hand to close around his wrist, spreading frost across his bracer and sending a deathly chill all the way down to his bones.

" **Abomination!** " It shrieked in the Old Tongue. " **Crawl back to your grave!** "

Jon opened his trapped hand and took a moment to adjust the grip his free hand had on it before stabbing towards the Walker's exposed throat. It turned his attack aside with a casual smack against his forearm and followed up with a backhanded swing that buried its knuckles into the side of Jon's face hard enough to send him sprawling. He coughed but recovered quickly, now thankful for his seemingly bottomless well of stamina that allowed him to endure such vicious blows in stride.

The Stranger was at his side as Jon brought Longclaw up in both hands, keeping the Valyrian blade between him and the advancing Walker. "This one is a war leader among the Others, a Revanic." He said quickly. "Don't underestimate him. He's not like the lesser ilk that you've killed before. They were runts of the litter, this one is a fighter of the pack."

Jon gulped down a breath out of habit more than necessity and nodded. The Revanic shrieked and leapt off of the ground, displaying inhuman grace and speed before chopping downwards with their full weight behind the swing. Jon angled Longclaw so that the crystal blade slid off to one side and threw himself in the opposite direction, darting to his opponent's side and cutting it across the thigh. This threw the Revanic off balance, but it recovered in time to twist clear as Jon stabbed towards its exposed back; in the same move it flipped its larger weapon around and stabbed down under its own arm, cutting into Jon's side before he retreated.

Around them, wights both blue and green eyed slaughtered one another, leaving a small space around the duel. Jon could feel whenever one of his thralls were slain, be they the lesser shamblers or one of the precious few goric he'd secured. Jon's wights had the benefit of the element of surprise to allow them to quickly crush the first enemy ranks and the advantage of their weapons emitting the same spectral green flames that were associated with his Gravewalker nature, but the enemy was pouring more of their own wights into this fight as they realized it was no mere escape attempt by a few desperate Free Folk.

Time was against him, but every wight that he could lure here, every Walker be they runt or Revanic was another that would not pursue the Free Folk. He could see them through Ghost's eyes and knew that Val was proving herself to be the very leader he'd been told she was. The Free Folk broke through the thinning ranks covering the southern approach, using Giants and Mammoths to crush anything in their way while Wargs and their alternate skins followed behind, watching the flanks with torches on hand to dispose of any bodies that weren't totally crushed beyond the means of the Others' magic to animate.

A few were unfortunate enough to be grabbed and dragged down, but Ghost saved more than one life by dragging a shambler away by the leg or ripped an arm off. Many of the Wights posted along the southern and eastern approaches were already committed to or on their way to the ongoing battle, and too few were close enough to make a difference if they turned back now. At best some stragglers would be run down, but the Free Folk would escape with the a few hundred deaths to show for it if nothing changed.

Such as Jon losing his head.

The Revanic cut through the stem of a tree, its blade singing over Jon's head so closely that he felt a small gust of unsettled air follow it. The ancient bark offered as much resistance as bread would to a knife, cracking around where the crystal blade sliced clean through without any exertion on the Revanic's part. With a groan the tree leaned heavily to one side, hundreds of intertwined branches overhead snapped and sprinkled the battlefield as the entire form came crashing down, crushing more than a few wights from both sides. It also landed between Jon and the Revanic, the latter quickly clearing it before it or the disturbed puffs of snow finished settling.

Jon was too slow to bring Longclaw up, having dove out of the tree's path, and felt a burning agony rise up through him as the Revanic impaled him clean through the torso. A heavy exhale escaped from him-

" _For the Watch." Allister Thorne said dispassionately and stepped back._

His chest burned where the knives had cut into him like hot iron was being pressed into every individual wound.

" _For the Watch." First Builder Yarwyck said quickly, withdrawing like he feared Jon would have the strength to retaliate._

The good half of the Revanic's mouth twisted into a smile, flashing gleaming fanged teeth as it leaned down towards him, pressing the crystal sword all the way through into the ground beneath him. Jon's mouth was wide open, a strangle groan escaping from him as his hands fumbled for Longclaw. He'd dropped it at some point, he didn't know when.

" _For the Watch." Bowman Marsh declared._

The Revanic gripped him by the roots of his hair. " **The Night's King will suffer no rival, overreaching little monkey.** " It said, twisting the sword in Jon's ribs and ripping a pained cry from him.

 _Olly stared at him, face streaked with tears and his knife-hand quivering as Jon looked on, silently pleading._

" _Olly-"_

 _The knife dug in, piercing his heart._

" _For the Watch."_

Jon ground his teeth together and wrapped both hands around the Revanic's blade. He sucked in a deep breath and let out a groan of exertion as his gloved hands felt a chill pierce through to his bones.

" _Farewell Snow._

" _And you, Stark."_

 _Robb pulled Jon into an embrace which he gladly returned. He hadn't known that would be the last time he ever held his brother, the last time he would ever speak to him…_

The Revanic's smile faded as the emerald flames coursed over Jon's arms, burning away his sleeves where before it had left them untouched.

" _First lesson, stick'em with the pointy end. I'm going to miss you." He could see Arya's eyes beginning to moisten, but was mindful of the blade she held when she raised her arms up. "Careful!"_

 _She carefully set the thin blade aside, slowly setting it down only to then throw herself forward and wrap her arms around Jon's shoulders. He held her up and squeezed her against his chest. That was the moment where he almost stayed at Winterfell, bound only by his own stubborn pride to make good on his declaration rather than be named a coward._

" _All the best swords have names, you know."_

" _Sansa can keep her sewing needles." She whispered. "I've got a Needle of my own."_

 _He never knew if she had the chance to use Needle. For all he knew she laid dead in some nameless ditch in the south, the little girl whose boyish habits he'd indulged, who he went riding with and taught to shoot a bow. A victim of some rapist or robber or both as war raged on around her._

The crystal substance warped in his grasp and shattered. The Revanic recoiled away, its good eye wide as a dinner plate as Jon pulled the shattered tip from his chest. Jon felt it fracture and melt away in his hand as the flames spread further up his arms, as far as his shoulders and across his chest.

" _Jon!"_

 _Jon had known that it wouldn't be so simple as saying goodbye to Bran. He'd said his words, endured the silent, scornful glare of his father's wife and made to leave. Be it fear or respect for her station he stopped at the door and looked back at the blue, red rimmed eyes of Catelyn Stark._

" _It should have been you."_

 _He'd once longed for Catelyn's love, the same love she wielded like the finest made armour for her true-born children. He'd wanted to be able to sit at the same table as them and allow her to affectionately fuss if any part of his appearance didn't meet her standard. He'd wanted her to chase away his nightmares, to fill the hole left by the nameless , faceless shadow of whatever woman had carried him._

 _At that moment however, he just never wanted to see her again._

 _His wish had been granted at too high a cost._

Longclaw materialized in his hold. The few remaining green eyed wights were finally put down, torn into too many pieces to make suitable vessels for the magic that animated them. They closed in but stopped short, staring with what passed for fear at the green beacon of light that stood in their midst.

With a wordless snarl Jon brought Longclaw up and swung it down in a powerful chop.

" _Is my mother alive?" Jon saw Ned Stark freeze up in the process of turning to join the column. "Does she know about me? Where I am? Where I'm going?" He looked longingly at his father. "Does she care?"_

 _He could see the conflict in the Quiet Wolf's eyes. "…the next time we meet, we'll talk about your mother." He finally assured Jon. "I promise."_

 _Then he turned and rode away, rode to his death…to break his promise._

 _Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Rickon, Ned, Catelyn, Theon, Hodor, Old Nan, Ser Rodrik…every single person in the lie he'd once held was gone, dead or scattered. Everything about his old life was gone. It felt like he had been someone entirely different and now a stranger occupied the skin of Jon Snow._

 _All he had now, that which in all of the world that truly mattered to him, was his mission and his life…and he would not lose them today._

 _Not today!_

The Revanic desperately held up what remained of its weapon. Longclaw, wreathed in green, cut through it with barely any resistance and continued on, cutting deep into the Revanic from its cranium to the junction of its legs. Much like the runts that had fallen before it, its form shattered into a spray of ice and water, leaving only dark leather and furs.

Silence fell over the grove. The emerald flames slowly dissipated, leaving Jon naked from the waist up in the aftermath, yet now he felt as though he stood under a warm southern sun.

Around him, many of the wights collapsed into motionless heaps with the loss of their commander. Through Ghost's eyes he saw this effect reach even the shamblers chasing after the Free Folk. Hundreds simply dropped and never rose again, some expiring as they came into arm's reach of their prey. The refugees paid little heed to this, pressing their way further south-east towards a beacon of fire, to where Tormund blew a war horn.

They were away now, far enough that they had a chance.

Whereas Jon stills stood at the heart of the Army of the Dead. Even with their numbers thinned by his surprise attack and the loss of two Walkers, one of them of higher rank, he was surrounded on all sides. He could spot as many as two more pale figures standing tall among the wights, staring at him in a way that he never thought to see from their kind.

…

Fear.

They feared him. He had slain three of them so far and now had turned their own magic against them. He was no longer prey to them.

"We've done our part." The Bright Stranger appeared at his side. "We've dealt them a blow and deprived them of their fodder. Rejoin the vellorai and let us be rid of this dead land."

Jon nodded slowly and was about to consider just how to affect his escape when his legs gave out, bringing him to his knees. His limbs felt heavy and weak, Longclaw slipping from his grasp as he fell forward and face first into the darkness of the wraith world.

" _Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used to hurt you."_

" _Do you know what leadership is, Lord snow? It means that the person in charge gets second guessed by every clever little twat with a mouth. But if he starts second guessing himself, that's the end. For him, for the clever little twats, for everyone."_

" _I was trying to win the throne to save the kingdom, when I should have been trying to save the kingdom to win the throne."_

For what felt like an eternity he drifted through the darkness , until…

Jon opened his eyes with a sharp gasp and sat up, disturbing the patch of snow that he lay in. His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he glanced around, frantically looking for the blue eyed silhouettes he'd been surrounded by…only to find that he was alone.

He was back in the heart of the Free Folk camp, laying between the two Heartrees where Mother Mole and Val had met him outside a now deconstructed shelter. There wasn't a soul in sight, many of the abandoned camp fires were flickering out now that they were unattended.

His hands went to his chest to find it bare as before…and with a scar he didn't have before. Long and thin, on the right-hand side of his chest…where the Revanic's blade had sunk in. Longclaw lay by his side, bereft of its scabbard.

Supported by unsteady limbs, Jon crawled up the side of the nearest Heartree and felt the carved facial features with one hand as he closed his eyes and pressed the side of his face against the weirwood bark.

"I'm alive." He whispered. "I'm alive."

And then he knew he was no longer alone,.

"It is as I told you," the Bright Stranger said from behind him. "You are barred from death, Jon Snow, and so you shall stay until we are no longer bound together."

He couldn't die.

He'd been stabbed and yet he did not die.

Jon collapsed into slumber, safe within the sight of the Old Gods…to suffer the same nightmare he'd had before, only with greater clarity.

A nightmare of a world choked by perpetual winter where there was not a soul but him and the ghosts.

 _And not a soul to hear…_

Xxx

 **Review Responses**

 **Vikas Moonka said...**

 **"God damn! Now, that's a action chapter...a victory achieved but in classic!JonSnow fashion i.e more exitential crisi but becoming more bad-ass..this story deserves so much more love...a brilliant crossover..can't wait for more...thanks for writing..."**

 **Glad you enjoyed it Vikas! I'm trying my best to mesh both franchises together without making a huge mess out of them. One thing that always worried me was that I'd make it too easy for Jon, what with him being the Gravewalker now. But recently I've come to consider all kinds of way to make sure our favourite brooding hero doesn't always get his way.**

 **Richard1081 said...**

 **"Great chatper, also was an of the free folk around to witness Jon's badassery?"**

 **Well Richard, I had it that all of them were running for their lives, but I'm juggling the idea of a Warg or two with an avian skin may have spied this epic showdown.**

 **Prince of Petersburg said...**

 **"This story is as good as erver, still it's kind of weird to read without knowing who this "bright stranger" really is. Will you let him remember who he later on or you simly don't intend to do so?"**

 **Rest assured your Grace, the identity of the Bright Stranger is one of the key elements of this story's plot. It will be revealed in due time, and until then I intend to make like Littlefinger and smile and watch aseverybody tries to guess what it is. And just to drive this point home once more for anybody who STILL thinks the stranger is Bran the Builder: IT IS NOT BRAN THE BUILDER. Just put that in caps to make sure nobody can claim ignorance on the matter anymore.**

End of Chapter


	8. Chapter 7: Hands of Cold & Heart of Ice

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Seven: Hands of Cold & Heart of Ice**

Benjen Stark brought both arms down and smashed the head of the undead wolf, satisfaction seeping in as he saw the bright blue of its eyes fade as the fur of its shattered skull smouldered. Around him, men of the Thenns finished off the rest of the pack, jabbing torches into their twitching forms. The flat terrain around him was littered with the forms of stray undead that roamed these parts, little more than advanced scouts for the legions that marched through the Haunted Forest.

There'd been some losses in dispatching these scouts, but the Thenns proved to be as disciplined as they were savage. They used their spears to great effect in fending off the packs, wrapped oil soaked rags around their arrow heads before setting them ablaze to take some of the wolves down at a distance and strategically dismembered or shattered the limbs of the lupine marauders. He still would have taken a company of Rangers in their place if he'd had the luxury, but Alys Thenn, formerly Karstark, had made it clear that her new husband and his people were _her_ people and would not be dismissed.

Of the two hundred Thenns to sail north of the Wall on donated ships from Stannis Baratheon's fleet, Benjen had been granted command of forty. As the Magnar and Migna of Thenn combed for caches of dragon glass marked by Benjen both he his reluctant allies scoured the surrounding area to keep the undead away from the stretch of coastline bordering the Bay of Seals. Benjen's ravens were of aid in keeping watch over the area, ensuring for the last two days that the dig teams went unmolested as they unearthed ancient armouries left over from the first Long Night, some of which had been buried under several feet of snow and ice.

"Cold-Crow," a Thenn grunted as he tugged his axe out of the husk of one felled wolf. "Rider."

Benjen took an instant to realize the man's meaning and turned around. The Free Folk were not known for possessing a large amount of animals that made for good cavalry, but some like him were known to tame and ride the great Elks that roamed in these lands. One such mount raced across the snow, carrying a spirited young girl who was quickly showing that the domestic lifestyle of most highborn women below the wall was not for her.

When Alys Thenn leapt down from the mount with one of her husband's men she almost looked like little wild Arya…and like someone else whose memory brought a fresh stab of pain to his unbeating heart.

"Lady-" He caught himself. "Migna Alys, how goes your work?"

"We found every last one you'd marked, and some you didn't." She answered, gathering her heavy fur cloak around her shoulders. "Before I left, Sigorn was working on breaking the ice over the last few. We've a few hundred arrow heads and spear heads of dragon glass, as well as some of the carvings Lord Snow mentioned."

Protective sigils, enchanted by the Children of the Forest long ago to protect these ancient caches so that when the Long Night returned the First Men would not be found defenceless. It would be simple to mimic their shape, but mimicking the enchantments that went into them would be another ordeal entirely. He'd been instructed in the exact process by his patrons, who'd blessed Jon Snow's plan when he presented it to them in his week of toil.

Those same details were passed to Jon and further on to Lord-Commander Mallister and Davos Seaworth, ensuring the knowledge wouldn't be lost and the living would have another weapon to bring to bear against the dead.

"Then you'd all best be off." Benjen whistled and summoned his mount. "The dead will march here in force soon."

"And you won't be coming back with us." Alys guessed.

"Would that I could." Benjen climbed into the saddle and raised his hood. "What you've gathered will be enough to arm the Watch, but it's only the start."

"King Stannis recognized the threat." Alys hooked a pouch of dragonglass onto the side of her elk. "Once the Boltons are dealt with-"

"He'll take his war to the south until he has his throne." Benjen cut her off. "I've never held much hope for the ambitions of southrons."

"It'll mean more support here." Alys argued. "More than what the Boltons or my cunt of a great uncle would give."

"Not enough." Benjen said firmly. "We need all seven kingdoms and more."

Overhead the ravens cried out. _Wight! Wight!_

Benjen gestured towards the east. "Now get going, Migna Thenn. Ride swiftly and don't look back until you're away from shore!" The chain of his morningstar clinked as he readied the weapon and turned north, where the alarm had originated from.

Behind him he heard the Thenns exchange calls and blow horns, signalling for any of the skirmishers to retreat. He'd buy them some more time if he could, just enough to get packed up and back out to sea.

 _Wight! Wight! Wight!_

He saw the first figures emerge from the treeline to the north-west, the unnatural shine of blue eyes in hollowed sockets that stared vacantly ahead . Shamblers, zaric or whatever other names had been lumped onto the lowest of the Others' minions.

None of the faster ones yet, not even one of the Runts leading them. His ravens reported similar sights along the perimeters set by the skirmishing party: hundreds of wights marching forward, their ranks broken by the occasional giant or mammoth.

The morningstar at his side clinked again as he let the head drop and then spun it, embers building upon the enchanted weapon. Benjen howled as he closed in on the nearest of the shamblers and swung away, taking the head off of it.

"WINTERFELL!" He snarled.

Xxx

Nearly a week later, Alys Thenn stared out over the wide plains before the Wall. Her husband stood with her as he had since she'd taken up her post nearly an hour ago. The ramparts atop the largest construct in known history were undergoing renovations in the face of the new manpower provided by the Free Folk, directed by Denys Mallister after he'd arrived to find Jon Snow absent and news of an unauthorized ranging.

He'd been displeased but saw no point in arguing the matter. Whatever the Augur had done, it had shown him and the other members of the Watch the threat in all its terror. The thought of barring any further refugee columns had never even been brought up by the 999th Lord Commander, even before he'd been made aware of how easily Castle Black had been breached by the Giants. The ten thousand sought by Jon Snow and the Giantsbane would be welcomed through at any castle they happened to arrive at by Mallister's order.

Yet there was still no sight of them. Alys knew that travelling beyond the Wall was arduous as well as lengthy at best, yet with each day that had passed she and the others grew more concerned for the fate of the ranging party. She'd hoped for word of their return when the Thenns returned to East Watch, then again when they rode all the way to Castle Black.

Nothing.

Eddison Tollett, designated as the new First Ranger under Mallister for his experience at Hardhome, stepped into view with a fresh torch. "Magnar, Migna." He greeted them.

"The Grave-Wolf does not return yet." Sigorn grumbled.

"You think he won't?" Edd asked.

The Thenn shook his head. "The Wargs say the gods favour him. The Crows say he died and yet lives." He looked out over the darkening landscape. "They call him Gravewalker. Old stories about Gravewalkers been passed down. Say they can't die, not by blade or flame."

Jon Snow was many things to Edd. Honourable, too trusting (at least before Thorne's mutiny), grim, brooding, stubborn, courageous…

After he'd seen the fresh wounds on Jon's chest fail to even bother him, lethal injuries that would stop the heart of any other man, adding immortal to the list didn't seem entirely mad. As long as it was the same brooding bastard that Edd had voted for then Jon Snow could be any kind of walker for all that he cared.

"Might be the case." Edd nodded. "He's hard to kill."

If memory served, Sigorn's father had learned that very lesson at the failed assault on Castle Black at the cost of having his skull caved in.

"You two should head down." He suggested. "We've no shortage of volunteers for watch duty." At a passing bird that cried out he gave a nod. "Gotta wonder how the Andals ever won anything if Wargs used to be all over."

"Skin changers not welcome in most places." Sigorn grunted.

"Impending death has a way of changing that." Alys commented before the bird, a raven, changed course and set itself on the edge of the platform where it cried out to them. "What's he saying?"

"She." Edd corrected, having encountered this raven's Warg more than once. "And I think she's telling us…" he trailed off and looked up again as a horn blew from the north. "…that something is coming."

Other sentries scattered along the wall were roused out of their dens and raced to man the ramparts. Archers gathered and waited as Edd barked out commands. "Steady boys! Nobody shoots without my say! Get the oil barrels ready and the gods protect whichever cunt leaves an open flame too close to 'em!"

A second horn.

These days anything more than one horn call was enough for Edd.

"NOCK!" He barked. "Magnar, Migna, get down to your people and get them ready."

Sigorn hefted a large axe and lumbered off with Alys at his side, the latter armed with a bow in hand and a sword at her waist.

A third horn call as figures raced out of the trees. Hundreds, thousands, but from here Edd could not see if they were living or undead.

Not until another bird made its perch by his feet, this one another raven with a message tied to its leg. Edd hastily untied and read the parchment.

 _The Gravewalker sends his regards._

"It's the Giantsbane!" Edd shouted and raced to the lift where he could see Alys and Sigorn already making their descent. "It's Tormund! Tell them to open the gate!"

This later turned out to be unecessary. The She-Warg had heard this through her raven skin and alerted the brothers down below. The gates groaned as they were raised open at both ends of the tunnel, allowing the floor of Free Folk to enter. As a precaution another Warg had posted their Shadowcat at the northern side to get a close enough look in case it was a deception. The main yard of Castle Black was cleared, opening a path for the flood of men, women, children, giants, mammoths and other assorted animals. They came in a long line that stretched all the way back into the Haunted Forest, thousands of them racing with the enemy on their heels.

By the time that both Alys and Sigorn had reached the courtyard the first of the column was spilling out of the tunnel. They slowed at first, but were prodded along further while men formed a path leading to the castle gates.

"Keep going!"

"Don't stop! Don't stop!"

"This way!"

There was some stumbling, as was prone to happen when so many people raced in any one direction in a panic, but not as many as there could have been. Dozens poured out of the castle gates and spread out into the terrain beyond where the encamped Free Folk met them with cheers. The Giants lumbered along, given a wide berth to avoid having them step on one another.

Alys quickly realized that the Giants had been spaced out along the column with good reason. They were helping to stem the tide in case anything happened up front that would lead to the column being bottled up in the castle or the tunnel. For every few hundred Free Folk that passed through there was a Giant, sometimes with a Mammoth, which set the pace for those following behind.

"He did it." She whispered as the fifteenth giant in the procession stomped through, guiding a mammoth which carried sick, elderly and children on its back. "He really did it!"

Xxx

"Fuckin'-" Tormund Giantsbane stomped on the skull of another wight and tugged his sword out of its back before jamming his torch into the downed emaciated figure. "Cunt!"

Nearby, Val pinned another wight, this one a woman fresh enough to have been from Hardhome, to a tree with her spear while one of her men set it alight. "Fall back!" She shouted and blew her horn, three times in succession. A warning to those fleeing south that the rear guard was losing ground.

As they came into the final few leagues before the Wall they found scattered groups of undead prowling from the east in great numbers, and only a few less from the west. The Giants and their mammoths proved invaluable once more clearing the way and crushing anything underfoot that got in their way. After that it was down to Val, Tormund and their war bands to cover the flanks. Val was particularly experienced in this after the flight from Hardhome, positioning men far in advance in the event of this happening.

It wasn't a clean getaway though. Unlike before the Others weren't trying to herd them. A couple Giants had been swarmed and brought low, a mammoth carrying over a dozen souls toppled over from many spears being planted in its side and skull and crushed almost half of those it had been carrying. Over a hundred more had been snatched and dragged off to the side to be stabbed half a hundred times or ripped limb from limb.

But as Val raced out of the trees with her white cloak flared behind her she could see that they'd saved far more than they lost. Torches lined the top of the very same Wall which her sister had died in the shadow of. Mother Mole saw to her nephew's safe crossing, that much Val trusted her to handle…after making sure that some of her own people would be close by and watching at all times.

Her experience in herding her people through narrow passes with haste had helped prepare for this moment. She'd trained herself and her people to form into columns three or four hundred strong with the Giants used as markers to divide them, keeping them from crowding together. As long as they kept a steady pace they could get thousands through a tight space in minutes.

That was exactly what they'd done when they met up with the Giantsbane. His men had been hard at work dragging large boulders into place on a cliff overlooking a ravine. He'd set several trees on fire, a humble imitation of the same pyre that Mance had used to signal their first attack, a beacon that drew her people in and through the ravine. Once they were through his men had rolled the boulders down and triggered a rockslide that buried hundreds of wights in hot pursuit, allowing Val's men to deal with the few to get through and slowing down the thousands that were forced to climb across.

This feat bought them a few days of respite, but Val never let anyone rest for longer than necessary. It was a straight rush to reach the Wall with the promise of an open gate urging them onward. After nearly a full day of travel she'd allowed the column to stop for a few hours, then repeated this whenever her Wargs told her there were no blue eyed demons creeping about nearby.

"Hold here!" Val called, turning about as men and women gathered, forming a line of torches and blades. "Hold them here!"

The tail end of the column was almost halfway across the open space between the forest and the Wall.

"These fuckers are about to swamp us." Tormund whispers, wide eyes piercing the veil of darkness to see countless figures shambling towards them, some of them so recently raised the blood on them had only just dried out in the cold.

"Running away?" Val challenged, keeping her voice low and her gaze locked on the advancing mass.

"Thought that was the plan." Tormund chuckled.

"Your Lover-Crow would be a welcome sight by now." She felt a subtle tremor beneath her feet. "But this will have to do. BREAK!"

Just as the wights broke into a charge the Free Folk line broke apart, making room for a dozen giants swinging logs to charge through and, with wide sweeping motions, clear the frontlines away, sending undead flying through the air while some managed to hurry through and try to hack at the giants' legs.

"Form!" Val called. "Reform!"

This maneuver had saved them at Hardhome, and back then she hadn't the benefit of the fighters involved being trained in it. Mance had been the one to invent it when they finally had enough giants on hand who would agree to go along with his tactics. He'd used it to great effect in breaking the sieges of settlements throughout the Frost Fangs and Haunted Forest, gaining the loyalty of those he'd saved. Back in those days his call to unite had been like a beacon of hope for many of them, seeing him walk across a field of destroyed undead with giants and an army at his back, seemingly untouchable by all save the gods.

Val had lacked is leadership and recognition at the time. All she'd had was the fact that nearly everyone else was too busy pissing themselves to think of a plan. She'd shouted and hit a few over the head until they'd gotten the message and also convinced a number of the giants to go along with it, but the time lost had also cost them thousands who would have made the escape with them otherwise.

The warriors reformed their line in a hurry.

"Press!" Val shrieked and lunged forward, jabbing her spear into a wight as it swung a rusted hatchet at a giant's leg.

The line of warriors leapt to the giants' aid, cutting down the wights that slipped through. Some of them were put to the torch, but with how few lit torches remained among her fighters the popular move was to push them back far enough that the giants could see the threat scurrying about their legs and crush them as easily as stepping on an ant.

At first it seemed that the line was unbreakable, but then its one flaw reared its ugly head. The line was originally nearly fifty yards from the treeline, but it had crept forward almost twenty yards and the number of undead spilling out only increased. This maneuver was ideal for leading an offensive against limited amounts of the mindless undead, for thinning their ranks and allowing both man and giant to support one another for a dedicated push. It wasn't meant for holding back the entire undead army. More importantly: as a defensive tactic it would need a lot more refinement and training, both of which required time that they didn't have.

"HALT!" Val howled. "HALT!"

Some heard her, others pressed forward with the giants, caught up in the satisfaction of butchering the monsters that had hounded them for so long. Tormund stood among them before she punched him in the jaw. He near retaliated, face fixed in a ferocious snarl before he recognized her as she shouted in his face. "PULL THE LINE BACK!"

Snapping out of his blood rage, Tormund grabbed the nearest man and shook him by the neck. "PULL THE LINE BACK YOU DAFT CUNTS!" He roared, his voice carrying further than Val's and bringing all but a few back.

Val raced to the legs of the nearest giant and tried to get its attention. "Back!" She called, waving her arms and pointing. "BACK!" She repeated this word in the Old Tongue.

By this point there were thousands of the undead swarming out into view. The giants continued to knock handfuls of them away with every hit, but even if they'd had the full support of the rear line they wouldn't last long against these numbers. Two of them already had wights climbing over them and realized the danger, another was lost in a rage much like Tormund's and instead charged out into the mass of undead, kicking and swinging its limbs blindly.

"BACK TO THE WALL!" Val called, her throat sore from hours of issuing commands this way. "RUN!"

The refugee column was almost inside the tunnel entirely. Val's warriors broke and ran, followed closely by giants who they made room for. They didn't have the head start she'd wanted thanks to carelessly advancing closer to the tree line. Whichever Walker that pulled the strings here had the foresight to mass their forces while masking their true numbers behind the trees, waiting until the rearguard had pushed forward enough that it could unleash its reserves while they were too close to safely disengage. It let the Free Folk's own success be their undoing, and it cost them three giants and another handful of fighters who fell behind and were dragged down.

Val's heart pounded against her ribs as she raced towards the tunnel opening. The giants, with their longer legs, were able to reach it first and ducked inside in single file but were forced to a stop to avoid trampling those crossing the tunnel now.

 _Please keep going._ She prayed. _Don't block the tunnel!_

She'd come so far now. Her nephew was on the other side of this wall, waiting for her. She may not have shown it but more than wanting to save as many of her people as possible Val wanted to save herself just so she could name Mance's son, make sure he knew the names and deeds of his parents.

Those aspirations seemed to be torn away when she felt some clamp around her leg, biting into the thick leathers and furs and drawing blood. Val cried out and fell forward, her spear flying from her hand as she landed face down. Turning over gave her a glimpse of frozen, blood stained fur and flesh that had either rotted or been damaged enough to expose an entire side of sharp fangs that dug into her leg. The wight-wolf growled and began to tug her back away from the tunnel. To the side she could see that several others had been run down and put in similar positions.

With a shriek Val tugged a crude dagger from her belt and jammed it into one of the wolf's eyes, but it barely flinched. The other wights were closing in, fifty yards off now.

"Help me!" Val called out, clawing at the frozen ground for something to grab onto. "Help-"

The wight-wolf suddenly stopped pulling. She could feel its teeth still digging into her lower leg, but there was no weight behind it now. When she looked up against she saw that only the wight's head was attached to her extremity while its headless body was pinned close by under the weight of a figure covered in a familiar white coat.

 _Ghost!_

The direwolf had shadowed the column the entire way, leaving a trail of shattered wights behind it. Once it had appeared with a child who had wandered off the first time they set camp, returning the girl to her family before disappearing again without a sound.

Now it was grabbing Val by arm, not painfully like the wight had but enough that it was able to begin dragging her towards the tunnel opening. Val was able to get her good leg under her and leaned on the direwolf, which was the size of a large pony by this point. Despite its aid she could almost feel the horde reaching out from behind her to pull her back.

It may have been that she wasn't far off, as Ghost suddenly ploughed his body into hers in a way that caused her to be slung across his back with a yelp before it sped up, easily bearing her weight until they'd entered the shadow of the tunnel. The wolf-wight's jaws relaxed but remained stuck in place as soon as she saw the archway pass overhead. Its single good eye remained open, observing its surroundings.

 _I'm in!_ She realized, clinging to Ghost's fur.

Long ago Varamyr Six-Skins had spoken of taking Snow's direwolf as his next skin. Mance had denied him this with the threat of death if the Warg did anything to turn Snow against them…not that the Six-Skins' involvement was needed for that. This was when Val had learned the direwolf's name and heard of how unnaturally silent it was.

 _Mance you foolish bastard._ She thought as hands eased her off of Ghost's back. _Thank you for refusing Six-Skins._

"Easy there." Tormund slung one of her arms across his shoulders. "Let's get you to someone who can pry that thing off."

Val looked back as the Giantsbane helped her limp down the ice-carved passageway. The wights had stopped short of the tunnel's mouth and now stood silent, staring blankly at the retreating forms of those who had finally moved beyond their reach. She could see the faces of her fallen warriors among them, faces that only a few short minutes ago had been by her side, fighting against the true enemy.

"Looks like you owe Snow your life twice-over now." Tormund japed, gesturing with his head to the direwolf that moved silently by Val's side. "Be happy he's not the kind to take advantage of that."

"If he's alive." Val murmured, feeling hot blood leak down her leg.

"He's alive." Tormund grinned. "Haven't you heard? Apparently he's a god now. I don't believe it to be honest: no god would be _that_ small. Don't change the fact that he's fuckin' hard to kill though."

Looking at Snow's companion, Val somehow felt that the Giantsbane spoke true. She'd seen Wargs die only to end up inhabiting their other skin, and always the eyes would change to reflect this. Snow had claimed to no longer dream as Wargs do, but somehow she felt his presence when those blood red eyes passed over her, as though he was watching through Ghost rather than from within the direwolf.

As they came upon the southern end of the tunnel, Val breathed her first breath of southron air. In that moment she knew that if she lived to never see another wight for a hundred years it would still be too soon.

Then she saw the bodies of Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck strung up just above the tunnel entrance, writhing in bindings and snarling at those who passed below.

Tormund gave a laugh. "Say hello to the cunts who stuck their knives into Snow's chest. Knew he'd find a use for the lot of them!"

Xxx

Many leagues north-west from where Ghost crossed the Wall, Jon Snow trudged through the now silent, uninhabited woods. The wights and their masters had been swift to chase after the Free Folk, a fact which would have prompted him to give pursuit himself if not for the Stranger's counsel.

"Val and the Giantsbane cane be trusted with their peoples' lives." He'd told Jon. "We have another task of greater importance before we return south."

When Jon had questioned him, the Stranger proved evasive. "When we died, I felt a glimpse of my past, another fragment of the life I'd once led. It calls me to the Fist of the First Men. There is something there that was hidden, something of value to the Watch and more so to the Others."

"What is it?" Jon had asked.

"I don't know. Only that whatever it was had been protected by sigils far stronger than the like placed on the caches you dispatched the Thenns to raid." The Stranger had replied. "Carving and empowering these sigils are no small feat. The stronger the enchantment, the more effort and time needed. Some required years to perfect and would not have been created without good reason."

Jon had been to the Fist twice: first as part of Jeor Mormont's great ranging party, second as part of Mance's host to find the remains of a hundred horses and not a single man of the Watch in sight. The great hill thrust up and out of the terrain, giving the ring fort atop it command of the surrounding region. Three hundred men of the Watch, some of them the best in its ranks, had gathered here and less than fifty had escaped to Craster's Keep, trading one tragedy for another.

This time Jon didn't even need to ascend the same way as before. Instead of following the parts of the slope stable enough for man or horse to find footing he was able to practically launch himself up the steeper cliff faces and scale them as easy ad climbing the trees back in the Godswood of Winterfell.

As he clambered up onto the highest peak the Stranger appeared before him again. "We are close." He said, holding out one hand and emitting a green light which spread into the ground beneath him and across the the old battleground.

"Spirits of rock and sky, water and tree still dwell here." The Stranger said. "Let us open their eyes, Jon Snow, as you did at Castle Black."

Jon carefully stepped forward and followed the roots, passing by discarded weapons now coated over by ice, the lumps made by the bodies of horses abandoned after the lopsided battle and the remaining wall components of the old ring fort until he stood in its very centre.

Here, he knelt and placed his hand upon the ground, feeling the pulse of the Heartree's roots.

 _Snowsnowsnowsnowawakenussnowsnowsnowsnow_

Just as before, countless voices whispered to him and slowly turned into a cacophony of cries. Warmth and life raced up through his hand and filled him.

" _ **Espar agor!**_ " He and the Stranger bellowed.

From the ground rose the phantom twin of the Heartree that once stood here, a beacon atop the lonely hill which now had the sight and voice of the old gods restored to it. He could feel the countless souls that coursed through the roots speaking to him, giving thanks and lending him strength.

"With each of the old Heartrees that we awaken, the gods grant us a new blessing." The Stranger said as Jon stood up and bathed in the glow of the phantom tree.

"I feel it." Jon raised his bare hands and watched as the spectral flames collected in his palms. "I feel…"

" _Jaime Lannister sends his regards." Roose Bolton hissed and sank the knife into Robb's chest._

Jon gasped and fell to his knees again, his mind racing with new images, memories that weren't his.

 _Catelyn Stark let out a long wail of despair and dragged her knife across the throat of the young woman in her grasp. Black Walder quickly repaid the act. She didn't even try to resist, eyes locked on where Robb Stark lay next to his pregnant wife._

His hands flew to his eyes, trying to block out it all out.

" _Here! Comes! The King in the North!" Men wearing the twin towers of House Frey chanted, leading a horse behind them as they stormed into a camp that was in flames. "Here! Comes! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!"_

 _Upon the horse was the body of a man…wearing the head of a wolf upon the neck. No, a direwolf…and the body wore the same clothing that Robb had been in at the moment of his death._

 _They cheered and threw food at Robb's body, butchered and bound in place as one final humiliation for Jon's brother._

He screamed, howling to the stars that watched in apathy from overhead.

" _Ser Ilyn! Bring me his head!" A boy, golden haired and green eyed, commanded with a cruel grin._

 _Sansa, she was there, pleading frantically. An older woman, golden haired and green eyed, tried to speak to the boy but was ignored. A man wielded a sword too large to be used effectively in combat…the ancestral sword of House Stark._

 _Ned Stark knelt before a great structure, the Sept of Baelor (though he'd never seen it himself, Jon somehow knew) and stared out towards a statue in the midst of the crowd. Arya. She was watching even as a man in black tugged her down and tried to make her look away. She was dressed raggedly and crying out for her father, struggling in the man-in-black's arms._

 _The Lord of Winterfell whispered beneath his breath. "I'm sorry." He did not speak to Sansa, nor to Arya or anyone present._

" _I'm sorry Jon." The words barely escaped him before Ice passed clean through his neck, so quick that for a moment his head remained in place before rolling away._

"Stop!" Jon bawled, stumbling away from the tree and swinging his arm out as if to somehow force the images aside. "Make it stop!"

"There is no stopping this, Jon Snow." The Stranger watched, calmly keeping pace as Jon tried to run away from the truth.

He had denied himself the chance as justice long ago. When his father was murdered and his brother went to war he almost rode to join them. Robb would have pardoned him, that much he was certain of. But he'd been convinced to stay.

 _Because of a vow. Because of honour. Because I was already fighting one war while my family fought another!_

He hadn't been there. He should have been there. They should all be alive right now and he couldn't even die to join them.

 _I'll never see them again, even in death._

Jon let out another enraged howl that echoed across the land. When he looked down he found a patch of ice and saw within it the target of his anger, his remorse, his shame.

"YOU!" He rammed one fist down and cracked the surface of his reflection.

"STUPID!" More ice chipped away while his hands came back with barely even a bruise.

"FUCKING!" The ice threatened to give away.

"BASTARD!" He brought both hands down and shattered the mirror image.

 _I had a family. I had three brothers, two sisters and a father. I threw them all away because I couldn't stand being called a bastard. I walked away and left them to die!_

He remembered how badly he'd yearned to go to the Wall and take his vows. He'd said that he wished to rise high and earn something for himself. The truth he'd denied was that he just wanted to go somewhere that nobody could use his bastardry against him.

If he could he would reach back to that moment and throttle the sullen, foolish little boy.

Finally, all of his rage was expended and all he could do was weep in the snow. "Stupid…bastard…" He said, tears flowing down his face.

"You could not have saved them even if you had gone with them." The Stranger said, standing by his side. "But you can avenge them, Jon Snow. Avenge the betrayals and murders of your kin, the theft of your home and the usurpation of your lands."

Kneeling down, he reached down through the breach in the ice and set his incorporeal hand against a flat stone surface which glowed in response, exposing intricately carved shapes. "The Kings of Winter built this place in the final days of the war. Both as a lookout post as they constructed the Wall and a resting place for some of their greatest heroes, those who fought and fell in the closing hours of the Long Night as well as those who lived to see many winters that followed."

A stone slab shifted beneath the ice, fracturing the covering and opening up to expose a hidden space beneath.

"Including the first King of Winter." The Stranger stood. "Behold, Jon Snow…"

Within the space was a body encased in ancient bronze armour and wrapped in layers of fabric. The gauntlet clad hands were folded over a small parcel held against the bronze scales over the torso. Jon could see flesh that had been frozen and preserved since long before his birth, long before any Andal or Valyrian set foot on this continent…

He could also see the rough carving of a direwolf upon the ancient helmet.

"Brandon the Builder, first among our ancestors."

Jon's legs lost all strength. He was within the presence of the remains of the founder of his family's lineage, the builder of the Wall, the Hightower, Storm's End and other marvels of architecture. The crypts of House Stark contained a space for him, the closest to the entrance while all who came after were buried progressively deeper. Yet there were no remains to be found within, as was common for lords and kings who fell in battle and could not be retrieved.

"Why here?" He breathed. "Why did they bury him here?"

"By his own command." The Stranger indicated the parcel upon Brandon the Builder's chest. "So that one day a scion of his blood might take up the true ancestral weapon of the Starks. As the gods showed you the fates of your loved ones, they showed me this truth. I journeyed here once in my life as a young man, ambitious and confident, seeking to claim Brandon's hammer. I believed myself worthy…but I was wrong. It is not meant for me."

"It can't be for me." Jon denied. "I'm a bastard, I'm not a true Stark."

"Andals breed bastards." The Stranger said bluntly. "Their Septons devised the term in order to appeal to the nobility, to grant unfaithful lords reprieve from the consequence of their actions and shift the weight of their sins onto their offspring. The very use of it is an insult to all concepts of personal obligation. The First Men sire children, regardless of how they were conceived. Now, Jon of House Stark…take up the Fist of the First Men."

With shaking hands, Jon reached out. When he touched the parcel he almost pictured the Builder suddenly coming to life and tossing him from the summit, an unworthy and up-jumped bastard seed seeking to claim that which belonged to a true child of his line.

But…for a moment it instead looked like the preserved corpse's arms shifted aside to allow Jon to pick up the object. The leather wrappings fell away, crumpling in his hands to reveal the Fist of the First Men.

It was a hammer, not a great warhammer the likes of which Robert Baratheon used to smash in Rhaegar Targaryen's chest but a one handed tool more like what a blacksmith or stone mason would use. It was crude in design, yet he sensed a great power bleeding off of it.

"By the strike of this hammer one has both the power to create and destroy." The Stranger told him as the hammer took on the same green glow as Jon's other weapons. "With this he built the wonders for which he is remembered and many for which he isn't. Now it passes to you…and with it, the power you need to take your revenge."

Jon laid the hammer across both of his hands, gazing down upon it in awe. "Yes," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around the handle. "My father was an honourable man and they cheered as he was cut down. My brother sought justice and his remains decorate the halls of House Frey."

Justice was what they had fought for. Justice was what they had died for.

But he had not seen the fates of Sansa, Arya, Bran or Rickon. Sansa he knew to be in the custody of the Boltons, though he hadn't verified it before. But for the rest he now could hold out hope.

But he would not fight for justice.

"Justice will not answer for their deaths. Honour will not see their murderers pay for their crimes. The truth will not unite the kingdoms against the Others." Jon slid the stone slab back over the Builder's resting place and watched as the protective wards took effect once more. "I knew nothing, but now I know what must be done."

Raising the hammer overhead, he swung it down at the ice that surrounded the exposed crypt and watched as ice and rock shifted, dragging the Builder's crypt deeper and covering it with a fresh layer. He would not allow the scion of his house to be made to join the Army of the Dead, not when too many crimes had already been inflicted.

"My sister Sansa is a captive of the Flayed Men. I will free her." Jon promised. "Arya, Bran and Rickon are far from home. I will bring them all home one day."

He moved towards the cliff edge overlooking the Haunted Forest. "The Flayed Men hold the seat of my house, so I will wash them clean of this world and retake it. The Freys feast and rejoice, rewarded for their treachery. They will know what it is to suffer the loss of everything they hold dear."

He fashioned a noose of leather to insert through a gap at the base of the Fist's handle and then secured it to his belt. "The Lions sanctioned these crimes against my kin, so their debt of blood will be repaid in kind. The Krakens took Winterfell and paved the way for these traitors to undo our rule. They will not be granted another chance to rise."

Reaching down, Jon touched the network of roots beneath the phantom Heartree and allowed it to engulf him.

"Winter is coming for them all." He promised before falling through space and time.

The last thing he saw was the look of approval upon the Bright Stranger's face.

Xxx

 **Review responses!**

 **dmobking said...**

 **"** **hammer of Brandon the builder very nice wonder what power your going to give him either way good chapter."**

At first I was going to make it that Jon was being sent to retrieve the Horn of Winter, but then I thought...nah, this is a good opportunity to implement something thats been giving me difficulty: giving Jon a magic hammer like Talion ane Celebrimbor had.

 **HadrianCaesar said...**

 **"Nice."**

 **Vikas Moonka said...**

 **"** **Once again, perfect characterisation of Jon...being a bastard totally defines him, makes me wonder how u will handle his Targ! reveal, looking forward to that..the fist was a nice touch, hopefully it demolishes the Twins (it can be used to destroy)...u are surely giving this an epic feel..the last section really pumped me up...i think that, now that Jon being a gravewalker is common knowledge, that will actually inspire fear & mistrust in him from people (especially Southerners)..lets see if Jon use that fear in his favour...i hope that Jon doesn't devolve into ned 2.0, the book!Jon was more ruthless (ur Jon seems like that), ...thanks for sharing.."**

I was honestly worried how people might take my depiction of Jon, but I'm glad that you're enoying it. My rationale for it was that 1) This guy just died, TWICE, so he's gotta be feeling the stress. 2) On every side there have been people who have called him a traitor, an oath breaker and more recently have tried to kill him. It gives Jon the feeling that he's the only person who seems to really care that an army of wights several hundred thousand strong are marching on the Seven Kingdoms while everybody else insists on carrying out old grudges or don't believe it. 3) Finally having to see how his father and brother died, as opposed to just hearing about it, would be traumatizing for anyone in his position and serves as the straw that broke the camel's back.

I do intend for Jon to be more ruthless than in canon, but to still temper that with some of Ned Stark's teachings. But rest assured: much like Arya, Jon has his own list. 'The Boltons, the Freys, the Lannisters, the Greyjoys, valar morghulis' and all that.

 **the-adrestia said...**

 **"Man, your writing is so engaging. Keep up the good work my man."**

Can do!

 **Cristobal Alvarez said...**

 **"I absolutely love this story!"**

I absolutely love it when people enjoy my work!

 **Richard1081 said...**

 **"Can't wait to see the reactions of the other characters such as Stannis, Cersei, etc. to what Jon has become."**

All in good time. The best legends take time to build momentum.

 **sddc0 said...**

 **"YESSSS! Take vengeance for your family!"**

End of Chapter


	9. Chapter Eight: War Council

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Addendum: Upon looking this chapter over I realized I'd made a mistake. 

Xxx

 **Chapter Eight: War Council**

When Jon first appeared in the till yard, few aside from the Wargs were immediately aware of it. They cried out in shock and fell to their knees as the phantom Heartree, almost a third as high as the Wall itself, unleashed a blinding flash (blinding to them anyways) and a billion voices called out from its core. Then they saw a figure rise out of that blinding light, heralded by the cries of the Old Gods. The skin changers both in and outside of the castle drew enough attention that few if any were looking towards the seemingly empty patch of ground.

Then the glare faded, leaving Jon Snow standing in the trampled mud and snow, mostly naked above the waist and carrying a sword on his back and a hammer on his hip. To anyone else who did witness his return it would seem as though he materialized out of nowhere, almost like stepping into view from behind a veil of thick fog or a blizzard. A sentry of the Watch who'd been staring right at Jon as he appeared dropped his torch and went for his mace, taking a swing at Jon out of reflex.

One hand shot up and wrapped around the haft of the mace, catching it just below its head and stopping it cold despite its wielders putting most of his body weight behind it. The sentry struggled briefly to free his weapon, then looked up and recognized just who he had attacked. His face turned pale and his hold on the mace fell away.

"L-Lord Snow?" He backed away and fell to one knee. "I-"

Jon held the mace out to him. "You reacted quickly to a perceived threat." He said. "Rise, I won't punish a man for an honest mistake."

The sentry scrambled to his feet and reluctantly took the weapon back, but Jon held onto it another moment longer. "Just don't let it happen again." He said before relinquishing it. "I don't want to fear for my skull being bashed open every time that I come here."

"Yes, of course my lord." The sentry nodded quickly.

Others had taken notice of this scene now. Some, mainly those who had not seen what the Wargs had and were too far to clearly make Jon's features out, paid little attention. Others who were closer and recognized him were stunned into silence before a white blur raced through the yard and slammed into the dark haired young man, knocking him on his back and pressing down against his chest with its full weight.

"Oof!" Jon looked up in time to be viciously assaulted by Ghost's tongue. "Augh, Ghost! Come on, boy!" Despite his protests he grinned and reached up, rubbing the direwolf's fur. "Let me up you big fool!"

Ghost eventually eased himself off of Jon's chest and moved to his side, nuzzling Jon's side. "Alright, alright already." Jon wrapped his arms around Ghost's neck and leaned into his side. "I missed you too, boy."

"Lord Snow!" From the King's Tower, the same place Ghost had emerged from, stepped Alys, Migna of Thenn. "You've…how?"

She'd not heard any horns warning of anything approaching from the north. Only the sudden breakdown of a She-Warg whose company Alys and Sigorn kept for the benefit of her raven sight had caused her to come down to the yard to investigate the cause of Heartree related babbling. The last thing she'd expected to find without first hearing word of the gates opening or the She-Warg's raven spotting him first was Jon Snow, noticeably more disrobed compared to when they had parted ways weeks ago.

"Migna Alys." Jon bowed his head slightly. "I'm glad to see you in good health. Did you succeed in your ranging?"

"I- yes but…how are you here?" Alys asked, stepping down from the tower's entry way.

"That is one of many things I might speak of today, should time permit." Jon said, dangling the possibility of the truth with no guarantee or oath to bind him. "I need to speak with you, your husband, Edd, Tormund and Val if they're still here. And Lord-Commander Mallister if he's here."

"Someone call for us?" Dolorous Edd emerged into view from the same doorway, followed by the elderly figure of Denys Mallister and the more imposing one of Sigorn.

Edd marched up to Jon. "I told them you'd be back." He said, grasping Jon's forearm and vice versa in a firm grip before clapping his free hand to Jon's shoulder. "You really pulled it off this time, Jon."

"The Free Folk saved themselves." Jon denied. "All I did was give them a distraction."

"Well that distraction has them practically worshipping you now." Edd lowered his voice to a whisper. "The Wargs from Val's people have been saying things. Said they saw you doing…" He struggled for the right words.

"Things?" Jon guessed and was given a playful backhanded slap against his arm this time.

"Jon Snow." Denys Mallister stepped forward. "We finally get to speak without the aid of ravens."

"Lord-Commander." Jon nodded respectfully. "I apologize for any undue distress I may have caused you and pray that the supply of dragon glass makes up for it."

"Them and those sigils you had the Thenns retrieve." Mallister nodded and beckoned for Jon to walk with him. "The Watch thanks you for your aid, as well as that of the Thenns. We don't have a grand arsenal of dragon glass, but we have enough that we can ensure that once the rest of the castles are restored each can have its own collection of daggers, spears and arrows. I've left instructions for the arrows to go to only the best archers we have and to be crafted by the most cautious of hands so not a one will go to waste."

"You will need a fresh supply to draw from once the Others begin their attacks." Jon said, his mind travelling back to the moment when he'd sent Sam away with Gilly and her babe. "Before my tenure ended I dispatched Samewell Tarly to the Citadel. Officially he's there to become this castle's next maester, in truth he is there to find any lost knowledge that can be of aid to us, including stashes of dragon glass."

"Yes, I became aware while perusing your correspondence in your absence." Mallister stepped onto the walkway above the gates, from which they could see the city of tents and motes of camp fires that stretched outwards from the Wall and into the nearby forest. "I'm not sure if I would have authorized a ranging the likes of which you had undergone, but I can't argue with the results of it. Well over twenty thousand Wildlings now stand south of the Wall, something which I didn't think I'd ever be happy for."

"That still means that many were slaughtered and raised as wights." Jon said grimly. "The Others will also have wights from bygone eras, hundreds or even thousands of years ago. Not just men either, but Giants, Mammoths and all manner of animals, some of which may have died out long ago."

His uncle Benjen had relayed this to him while receiving his orders to ride east in preparation for the Thenns' ranging.

"Eight thousand years to build their army a little at a time." Mallister shivered. "They could easily have far more than a hundred thousand. Many times that. The Watch won't be able to hold on its own, even with the Wi…the Free Folk." Jon could see that the elder was making a genuine effort to undo decades of habit. "We need the armies of Westeros to come to our aid, something which won't happen as long as this war drags out."

"Something that won't happen so long as a Lannister puppet sits the Iron Throne." Alys countered. "They didn't believe you before, they won't believe you now. I don't like Stannis by any means, but at least he answered your call for aid."

"In that I am fully in agreement with you, Migna." Mallister replied. "Which brings me to a topic of great import, something that I wish to say only behind close doors."

"I have much to share as well." Jon stared out at the Free Folk encampment, watching as Giants and their mammoths cloistered together near the edges and children raced between the cooking fires, playing and celebrating their newfound safety. "I haven't been entirely honest with…any of you since the night that Ser Alliser and his men murdered me."

"Somehow I thought that was the case." Lord-Commander Mallister gave him a knowing look. "But the Augur insisted that you were no longer of the Watch, so I dared not antagonize you by forcing the issue."

"Might we have the use of your quarters for this discussion then, Lord-Commander?" Jon requested.

"Of course, yes." Mallister nodded. "But you should know: Ser Davos Seaworth is riding here from East Watch. In his last letter he expressed an interest in your assistance. Something…regarding the apparent survival of your brother Rickon."

Jon inhaled sharply.

 _He lives!_

He'd suspected as much, but to hear it now filled him with joy.

"We'll wait for him then." Jon decided. "We also need Val and Tormund. Any major leaders of the Free Folk who can be called upon."

"You'll have them." Edd promised. "They all refused to leave until you got back anyways."

"Before anything can be arranged." Mallister glanced at Jon's near-bare torso. "Despite the long decline of this order into a penal colony, Lord Snow, I will be grateful if you would not give anyone the idea that it might fall further yet into a _nudist_ colony."

Xxx

When Ser Davos and his retinue of twenty riders found the Free Folk encampment at the base of Castle Black they were struck by the sights before them. Giants as high as five or six full grown men, mammoths even larger than that which could easily crush any one of them underfoot and not realize it, animals which demonstrated an eerie intelligence in their eyes as their gaze followed the riders. The column of riders had arrived after the dawn, allowing them a clear view of everything around them as they formed a procession through one of the few clear roads in the encampment.

"Lord of Light protect us." One knight murmured. "Why would his champion permit these savages and monsters to enter our lands?"

"These aren't our lands." Davos reminded the man. "And you'd be wise to keep your teeth glued together while we're here if that's all you have to say." He spotted the albino direwolf known as Ghost waiting for them near the open gates of the castle in lieu of any guards.

As they approached the direwolf padded through and waited near them as they dismounted and gave their mounts over to be given room in the stables. It was First Ranger Dolorous Edd who greeted them first and invited Davos to the King's Tower while his men were given quarters and meals. Davos agreed and reminded his men to not say or do anything that might jeopardize Stannis' ties with the Watch or the Free Folk before he followed the younger man.

"I'd heard about Jon Snow's ranging, but I didn't think much would come from it." Davos admitted as they ascended a stairwell. "A few hundred more, maybe a thousand or two brought safely south. But instead he brings almost the entire host home with him."

"Nine and the better half of a thousand, including a couple hundred giants." Edd confirmed.

"I saw them on my way in." Davos said as they came to the Lord-Commander's quarters. "How many do you think will be willing to-"

A piercing cry from behind the door almost made him fall back down the steps, only for Ghost to press against his lower back and steady Davos out. "What the hells?!"

"Sorry, Ser Davos." Edd smiled and pushed the door open. "I forgot they'd be finishing up in here."

Two brothers of the Watch dragged a limp figure out, carrying it by the arms. Davos caught the scent of scorched flesh and hair and almost wretched before hurrying on through. The chamber was a room that would have held a feast for visiting royal families long ago, but these days found its use as a meeting room. Stannis had even used it to begin planning his campaign in the North, appreciating the relative spaciousness and ease of security against spies and intruders.

It was now occupied by the Lord-Commander, the Magnar and Migna of Thenn, Tormund Giantsbane, a stunning golden haired woman clad in white furs, a crone with a strip of leather drawn across her eyes as she leaned on a cane of twisted and knotted weirwood bark, the Priestess Melisandre…and Jon Snow himself, holding an orb made of crystal black as night which seemed to absorb all light near it. Two men in the black of the Watch knelt with their hands bound in front of them, looking as if they had just met the Stranger in person.

"Brother Ivon's word was false." Denys Mallister declared. "The Augur of Night has found him guilty of profaning the sacred order of the Night's Watch with his false pledge."

This was the first time that Davos had actually met Denys Mallister in person, having never had cause to travel so far north along the west coast to the Shadow Fort. The man had a long, deeply lined face with a pronounced nose, sunken cheeks and a thick white beard. What remained of his white hair had retreated across the elder's scalp-no more than Davos' had though. His frame was that of a man who had been mighty on his youth and had fought the vexations of time to retain a semblance of that strength; wiry yet spry, no longer swift and broad shouldered but still carrying himself as befit a Knight and a commander. He wore the Lord-Commander's cloak well, gaining the illusion of bulk as he sat at the head of a long table.

"Brother Kale." Denys raised one hand, palm up. "Rise."

One of the two remaining men, a lad who had to have been from the warmer pastures below the Neck, climbed to his feet and inches forward, eyes fixed on the orb in Jon Snow's grasp.

"You were found to have been…insincere in your vow from six years ago." Denys Mallister said, resting his hands on the table. "In spite of this, you have served at the Shadow Tower and never acted in any way contrary to the words you spoke, so you shall not be condemned to death. Today I call upon you to reaffirm the promise you made and truly commit yourself to the Night's Watch. Place your hands upon the Augur of Night and speak the words you spoke in ill faith once. Only this time…I suggest you do as Brother Ivon failed to do and _mean_ them."

Jon Snow held the Augur out, allowing Kale to place his hands upon them.

"I-" Kale sputtered and took a shuddering breath. "I am…Night gathers, and now my watch begins…"

Davos watched in silence as the youth recited the oath of the Watch. The black orb which Kale's hands rested on began to turn a subtle dark green by way of an effect that reminded Davos of the filth that would be tipped into Blackwater Bay's shallows, blossoming outward like some smog cloud beneath the surface as the current diluted and scattered it.

It also made him feel nauseous for a moment, remembering the moment when he'd learned as a child just what people did with the same water he drank from every day.

"…that guards the realms of men." Kale managed to get through the lion's share of the oath. "I pledge my life to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

By now the subtle green tinge had become more like the glow of a torch…like the wildfire that had taken his son Matthos. Davos prayed this visit would not be a constant litany of reminders of unpleasant times in his life.

" _ **Then stand, brother!**_ " Many voices cried out, making Davos' heart nearly punch a hole up through the top of his skull.

 _Gods old and new protect me!_ He felt the wooden door pressed into his back and realized he'd almost thrown himself into it. This drew some glances but otherwise didn't derail the proceeding.

"Brother Kale, your word is found true." Denys Mallister smiled. "Rise, Brother. All your crimes are now truly forgiven. You may resume your duties once you return to the Shadow Tower."

Kale's hands were inbound and a relieved smile fell across his face. "Thank you, Lord-Commander." He said. "I didn't mean my vows the first time, I admit that. I thought I'd been sent to die for offending the wrong noble, thought I'd play along'n make myself trustworthy until I could slip away, maybe fake my death." The smile dissolved. "But then…then I saw the undead. My ma is probably still down by Horn Hill, 'long with me sister and brothers. I don't want them to see these things…ever."

"Your candor is appreciated." Denys replied. "Now go. You may return to the Shadow Tower with my blessings to take up the new post I'd promised you."

Kale looked stunned. "Really? Even after…"

"Six years you've served as my Steward. You've squired by my side on rangings, fought off the likes of the Weeper and taken over more and more of my responsibilities since." Denys said, a smile of paternal affection that Davos was familiar with, having worn the same expression for his own offspring. "In all that time you'd never disappointed me until I awoke from the Augur's grip to find you had not been touched by it. But now you've redeemed yourself in my eyes…Commander Kale."

Blinking quickly to keep his tears from showing, the young man thanked him and departed. The third and final prisoner was made to go through the same process…only when he finished, Davos was shown what became of the one who'd been dragged out.

"…and for all the nights to come."

This time the Augur glowed a curious red.

" _ **FALSE!**_ "

The man's body seized up as the red light spread up through their hands. Smoke rose from the man's arms as embers raced across his body. He opened his mouth to scream, but before a sound could emerge a fresh burst of flames erupted from his throat and eye sockets, scorching him from the inside-out.

The man collapsed without another sound. Denys Mallister sighed heavily and motioned with his hand, summoning two men who dragged the body away, past Davos. "Brother Kevan's word was false."

Jon Snow handed the Augur off to Dolorous Edd, who bundled it up and set it aside.

"Ser Davos." Denys Mallister finally acknowledged his presence. "I apologize. We have found many in our ranks whose vows were not sincere. Some cannot bring them to commit to the Watch even after seeing the coming storm…or perhaps because of it."

Not everyone could be as brave as Commander Kale.

"I've had my fair share of disturbing scenes." Davos said, recalling a particular night in a cave on the coast of the Stormlands. "Don't worry about me. If my heart was going to give out at the sight of someone dying it would have done so long ago."

"Then we may convene this council." Denys gestured to the unoccupied seats along the table. "Please, sit. We have many topics of critical importance that cannot be delayed."

The occupants of the room slid into the nearest free seat. Once they were all settled Denys Mallister reclined into his own chair with a sigh. A flutter of wings heralded the arrival of Jeor Mormont's raven, which landed on the Lord-Commander's shoulder and looked around.

" _Corn!_ " It cried.

"That fucking thing's never going to die." Edd grumbled.

"We are gathered here today, representatives of the interests of King Stannis of House Baratheon," Mallister nodded to Davos, Melisandre, Val, Tormund, Mother Mole, Edd and Jon in order."the Free Folk, the Night's Watch and House Stark, to discuss what must be done now that the lands Beyond the Wall are well and truly lost to us. We cannot count on more than a scant few refugees arriving to any of the open crossings. As many of the Free Folk as possible have been brought south. Now we must shift our focus towards preparing for the coming war, the true war."

He unrolled a map of Westeros and waited for the corners to be weighed down before setting carved discs across the assorted territories.

A lion and a rose are set over King's Landing

"In the south, the Lannisters and Tyrells consolidate power around King Tommen Baratheon, a rumoured bastard born of incest who is more puppet than monarch according to word of mouth. They hold the Westerlands, the Reach, the Stormlands and the Riverlands."

A pair of twin towers occupied the Riverlands.

"The Riverlands remain a contested region. Many riverlords and commonfolk still resist the Freys. Lannister levies have been positioned to help enforce the Crown's authority."

A falcon spread its wings over the Vale.

"The Vale has remained silent entirely. Neutral during all conflicts and recently voicing loyalty to the Crown before the death of Lysa Arryn. The Knights of the Vale represent one of the few untapped and deadliest forces in Westeros."

A sun pierced by a spear was set over Dorne.

"Princess Myrcella Baratheon's betrothal to Prince Trystane Martell was announced almost a year ago. One would think this means Dorne has returned to the fold, yet our wandering crows sing of the kingdom remaining almost totally isolated as ever after the death of Prince Oberyn Martell."

A kraken writhed on the Isle of Pyke.

"The Ironborn have been driven from Moat Cailin and now only hold Deepwood Motte. King Balon did not even grant us a response, some prisoners…or even the return of the raven we sent."

Finally, a flayed man arranged in an X shape and a stag shared the North.

"And now House Bolton clashes with Stannis Baratheon, the only monarch to come to our aid." Denys summarized. "The Kingdoms may seem on the verge of reuniting in the south, but I have no doubt that the rule of Tommen Baratheon is built atop a foundation of glass. The Dornish may seek revenge, the Riverlords may rise against the Freys en mass, the Game of Throne may turn the Lions and Roses into foes as it is wont to. The only consistency will be that few if any of these factions will know what comes for them all, fewer yet will care."

" _Care! Care!_ " The raven cried.

"It is not the nature of the Night's Watch to involve itself with the wars of the realm, but never before has it been so divided at such a bad time."

"And they call us savages." Mother Mole huffed, holding out one arm which the raven fluttered over to perch on. "Killing each other over some chair made of blades while death itself marches on them." Her free hand opened to reveal some fruit which the raven began to gobble up.

"King Stannis is fighting to save the realm." Davos argued. "He doesn't want the throne like the Lannisters and Tyrells do."

Mother Mole leaned forward and sniffed the air. "Yet he lusts for it enough to turn to dark magic." She chuckled, turning her head towards Melisandre. "Ash and shadow, cinder and spark…you look good for your age."

Melisandre's smile faltered. "I have no power, save what the Lord of Light grants me. I've placed it all in service of his chosen Prince. His victory is in your best interests."

"So was spawning a son if you believed my first man, and all that gave was disappointment when it finally came." The crone set her staff on the table. "Three times. The second one damn near killed me and actually killed my third."

Jon Snow interposed himself in the exchange before it could carry on. "We need a King who will point every army in the Seven Kingdoms to the Wall." He said. "As it stands, only Stannis Baratheon will help us. Therefore we must help him gain what he needs to resume his campaign."

"The Free Folk don't march in the wars of Kneelers." Val reminded him, her eyes piercing him. "But we can march if we have a stake and a leader we can follow."

"Stannis won't ask your people to march south." Davos told her. "If you can help him oust the Boltons and secure the North he will be able to raise an army large enough to take the south. You can remain here in the North with his blessing and help the Watch prepare after the Boltons fall."

"There're the stakes." Tormund muttered. "Now we need someone the other chiefs will _want_ to follow."

Mother Mole cackled. "I wonder who _that_ could be?" Her blindfolded eyes turned towards Jon.

"Would the Free Folk march under your command, Lord Snow?" Mallister asked.

"Have you heard them singing his praises?" Edd answered rhetorically. "They'd probably follow him back across the Wall if he said he had a plan."

Jon answered for himself. "If that's what it takes, I'll agree to lead them in Stannis' name." He looked to the Free Folk representatives. "If that's what they want."

Sigorn nodded. "You saved our people." He said. "The Thenns will follow. Others will too."

"And so the Wolves shall lead the charge for the Stags and howl o'er their enemies graves." Mother Mole murmured before shaking her head. "Guah! I mean yes."

Tormund smirked. "Followed you this far. Stopped wishing I'd thrown you off the Wall. Why not a little longer?"

Val nodded slowly. "Be true to us, Jon Snow, and we shall be true to you."

"There we have it then." Jon declared. "Ser Davos, King Stannis will have the aid of the Free Folk in eliminating the Flayers."

Davos didn't know if the man was using the Free Folk term to seem more endearing to his new followers, but the venom put into the word told him that Jon Snow's hatred of the Boltons remained sincere. What mattered was that the council had achieved one important thing already: a badly needed military alliance. Mallister seemed content to sit back and let the involved parties talk among the selves, serving to only bring them together while Jon Snow steered the council's topic of discussion.

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt if Davos showed some initiative also.

"There is another matter that could assist this campaign." Davos leaned forward and tapped the isle of Skagos off the east coast. "Rumours reached House Manderley of sightings of a boy who fits the description of Rickon Stark. Lord Wyman sent a messenger to East-Watch aboard a trading vessel relaying a promise of loyalty to Stannis should these rumours be verified…and Rickon Stark delivered safely to him."

"Which ones are they?" Tormund peered over the map.

"Here." Val pointed out White Harbour. "The Mermen. They rule the largest city in the North."

"Next to House Bolton they're probably the strongest house in the North." Jon commented "But they lost forces marching south, doubtless more at the Red Wedding. They may still have enough to protect their lands and wealth enough to hire sell swords, but the Boltons have always had substantial levies to call on."

"They can give us supplies aside from men." Davos replied. "We need new supply lines. From East-Watch there's too much chance for supply wagons to be attacked or lost. The further south we advance the harder it will be to feed our troops."

"If you've never hunted." Val said tersely.

"Hunting in war time is different." Denys Mallister warned. "You might be able to feed the army for a time, but the Boltons may use this to ambush your hunting parties. White Harbour can provide infrastructure that will give Stannis the ability to move with impunity across half the North, including Bolton lands. That's before you consider the other houses who might pledge allegiance with a true born Stark boy in Stannis' care."

"Rickon." Jon said, raising his voice enough to bring silence. "My brother. Is he on Skagos?"

"We believe so." Davos nodded, regarding the younger man carefully and not mincing his words. "I'd ask that you come with me to retrieve him. He might react better to a familiar face."

"He won't remember me." Jon denied. "He was little more than a babe when I left. That was almost five years ago."

"I'm still going to find him," Davos said sharply, "with or without you, my lord."

"I never said I wouldn't go." Jon slid his chair back. "Lord-Commander, if there is nothing else that must be debated then we should act quickly."

"Agreed." Denys Mallister stood with some effort. "I can offer no direct aid, but the Free Folk may remain in the Gift to settle and tend it as they see fit, so long as they keep the peace. This far north I doubt Roose Bolton would risk losing a force large enough to threaten you while Stannis marches on him."

"We still need to prepare." Alys said, rising with her husband. "My grandfather taught me some fragments of leading in battle before he went south. I can share what I know with the Free Folk and begin training them so another cavalry charge won't scatter them."

"I'll go with Snow." Tormund said bluntly. "The Stone Men'n me, we've got history. I know how to deal with 'em."

"If memory serves you killed some of them." Val deadpanned. "And castrated them."

"And?"

"You sent their cocks back to Skagos, arranged in a necklace around the neck a corpse."

"Exactly."

Val rolled her eyes. "I'll stay to help train my warriors." She stood up and moved with a slight limp. "We'll have an army ready for Stannis by the time you all get back."

Her expression softened as she faced Jon. "Go find your brother."

Jon's only response was a silent nod before striking out, followed close by Davos and Tormund.

Mother Mole cackled yet again and stroked the feathers of the raven. "All this talking. Sure hope something exciting happens soon, eh?"

She snorted before raising her arm and sending the raven out the nearest window. "Don't miss a thing, you!" Mother Mole called after it.

Xxx

Davos' men would remain at Castle Black to rest and recuperate. The Hand of the King was more accustomed to prolonged travel and was ready to ride back east once again, this time with a group of men and women handpicked by Tormund.

"I've never landed on Skagos." Davos confessed as he prepared his horse's saddle. "What are the men like there?"

"Eh," Tormund struggled to climb onto another steed, "what are most men like? These ones wear stones. Carved stone armour. Tough stuff too, nothing brittle or too heavy."

"They're banner men of House Stark." Davos tried to pry for information. "Would they take in Ned Stark's boy to protect him? Or to use him?"

"The Skagosi are banner men to the Starks only a little more than the Free Folk would be." Jon passed and, with one hand, flung Tormund up enough for the man to clamber into the saddle and hold tight. "They've rebelled when they aren't keeping to themselves. They might not even know or care who rules Winterfell now. We can't expect a warm welcome."

"Nothing out of the ordinary then." Davos sighed.

"Snow!" Val raced to where the party was preparing to head out, carrying something bundled up. "Wait."

"Yes, Val?" Jon was already in the saddle and ready to head out, his usually long and loose locks pulled back and bound tightly, not unlike what his father preferred. He wore a fresh set of chainmail and boiled leather over more of his signature black attire, a white direwolf's head emblazoned upon the chest. Longclaw sat upon his back, the Fist of the First Men on his hip and a wolfhead helmet tucked under one arm.

Val showed him the bundle: a sleeping child less than a year old.

"He's Mance's." She said. "My sister's. He's had no name before now, not when we didn't know if we'd live long. Now though…" she looked down at her nephew with a ghost of an affectionate smile. "…I think he'd have wanted you to name him. Mance. You finished what he started."

Jon slowly climbed back down and moved to Val's side, gazing down at the peaceful face of Mance Rayder's son.

"…Aemon." Jon whispered. "He was the maester here, a man who'd lived long than any other I know, yet still sharp and wise. He counseled me when I struggled, told me what I needed."

"Aemon." Val repeated. "Aemon Rayder."

Jon leaned in and whispered. "Don't let the red priestess find him." He warned. "Mance may not have been a King like Stannis but he still burned."

"Mother Mole warned me of that already." Val answered, less confident than she sounded. "Between her and the fire witch I don't know who scares me more."

The babe shifted, disturbed from his slumber.

"Damn." Val worked to ease him back to sleep. "I'll keep him safe, Snow. Get your brother back. Don't be afraid to come back naked this time."

Jon allowed a small half smile to slip out. "As you wish, Lady Val."

Xxx

End of Chapter

I'd like to clarify something.

In this chapter, while demonstrating the function of the Augur of Night, I had it respond to a false vow with the single response: " _ **FALSE!**_ " After I finished typing this chapter and looked back through it I had realized that this had been done with something similar.

Another story, Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler, is one of my favourites on this site. It's a tale of wish fulfillment but damn it I like it none the less. I recommend it for any who haven't read it already.

In it, a magical artefact of the First Men, a sword (spoilers) reacts to someone besides its intended wielder and his blood attempting to claim it by flinging them across the room and saying the same thing. I tried to find another word that I felt would fit, but felt that the short, blunt and direct response seemed so very fitting for something made by a Stark. I envisioned the Augur as possessing a personality reminiscent of the archetypal concept of a Stark King or Lord: decisive and swift to dispense justice to the guilty or grant mercy to the innocent. Black or white morality, no compromise, no excuses, a _stark_ perspective (another reference to Robb Returns).

After some struggling I decided that I would stick with my original decision, but acknowledge the work of The Dark Scribbler as the one who originally used this idea.

Upon reflection I realized that the concept of the Augur of Night is very similar to another magical object from Robb Returns. I had envisioned it as a reliable means for the Night's Watch to recruit reliable and trustworthy persons when it started out as well as discern the level of innocence of its members when they stand accused, such as if a member had lost faith in their cause and been bought or deserted, or if another like Jon Snow had killed an officer under that officer's orders. The aforementioned weapon, a mace, would strike down any who spoke a lie while placing a hand on it.

This pattern of parallels has left me concerned. I didn't start this story with the aim of hijacking ideas from another author, especially one of my favourites. Going forward I hope to deviate from this pattern.

To The Dark Scribbler: should you become aware of this and take umbrage to my decisions with this story, I invite you to merely contact me, be it by review or PM or any way that suits you (directly or indirectly) and tell me so. I will change without objection any parts that cause concern and offer my sincere apologies. I hold nothing but respect for you as an author and have no wish to antagonize or steal from you.

Addendum: Upon looking this chapter over I realized I'd made a mistake. I'd had Jon promise to explain how he came to Castle Black so quickly among 'many other things' only to go on to have him forget about it entirely. I've edited it so that he doesn't outright promise anything but instead 'might' tell about his new living-dead status. Then the revelation of Rickon comes up and Jon forgets the matter entirely to focus on finding his little brother. I'd find that believable, given his freshly made vow to find and restore the Stark pack. He'd either consider confessing about being a Wraith to be an invitation to consequences down the line or a waste of time now that he has a more immediate goal at hand.


	10. Chapter Nine: Isle of Stone

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Nine: Isle of Stone**

 **Deepwood Motte**

"If the bastard boy truly has recruited the Wildlings to our cause then why have they not marched already?!"

King Stannis Baratheon, first of his name, Protector of the Realm and rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros knew that the day fast approached that Ser Richard Horpe's tongue would do away with any patience he had left for the man.

Bloodthirsty, ambitious, confident and with more talent than most knights of his rank, Ser Richard was a slave to his pride and had come to question Stannis more than ever since the northern campaign kicked off. The stand off against the Boltons to the south and the occasional skirmish came nowhere close to saying the man's blood lust.

He wanted a true war, for glory and plunder.

Childish notions that had been Stannis' bane ever since his brother Renly challenged him for that which was rightfully his.

"The Free Folk are formidable warriors individually, but make for a poor army as they are now." Stannis replied, staring stonily at the impudent knight standing across the table from him. "Lord-Commander Mallister will house them while they are trained to the point that they are of any use in true battle."

It would do no good for his army to receive reinforcements that would be cut down by a single cavalry charge. He would trust any of the Wildlings to overrun a castle or raid a supply convoy, but if they couldn't contend against men-at-arms then they would become dead weight. Worse, they wouldn't be able to man the Wall in his absence when he pushed on to the Riverlands. He knew the disadvantage of fighting a war on two fronts and in one of the least hospitable regions of the known world. Only the presence of the Wall allowed him to focus on the Boltons, and only the presence of a Wall fully manned by more than the skeleton garrison that was the Watch would grant him the peace of mind to focus his efforts in the south.

The Free Folk and the Northmen needed to remain to man it, which made keeping the hosts of both as intact as possible. A war of attrition was the last thing the realm needed, which complicated his mission.

"I hear no mention of them forsaking their false gods and their trees." Said Ser Godry Farring, now known in the ranks as Godry the Giant Slayer after running a fleeing giant down. "Will we fight alongside pagan heathens now?"

There came the second complication. Stannis had welcomed the Faith of R'hllor for the devotion it inspired in its followers and the powers wielded by the Priestess Melisandre. Hosts were something that always grew weaker from the moment of its formation as men deserted or died, and the faith had made the former nonexistent among the devoted. But it had also made it difficult to discover allies.

He was under no illusion that forcing others to convert would be an ordeal in itself that would divide the realm further. What the followers of the red god failed to acknowledge was a simple fact: when you try to take away someone's gods, they were wont to react violently. One mandate of the Iron Throne was to protect the right of any man or woman to worship whichever deity they revered, a fact often resented by religious institutions and the Faith of the Seven in particular. That had been while the Seven ruled spiritually and without dispute in King's Landing, whereas now Stannis led troops from three different faiths and many more from none.

Only he could maintain a tentative balance between Seven, Old, Red and faithless as the Prince who was Promised. Yet despite his efforts his followers grew bold if his watchful gaze was absent for too long and they happened outnumbered those who did not convert in any one area. There had been incidents that threatened to undo his work and endanger his campaign.

"Is this what me and mine can expect then?" Sybelle Glover, the newly restored Lady of Deepwood Motte demanded. "Will our godswood be put to the torch and any who refuse to convert put to the sword? If that is the case you will find your stay here much colder than you'd like."

A murmur spread through the war council gathered in Deepwood Motte's long hall. The castle and its attached village had been seized and taken from the Ironborn raiders that had occupied it and tormented its inhabitants. All but a few had been put to the sword, including the greatest prize imaginable: Asha Greyjoy herself, the Princess of Pyke who now sat chained in the dungeons below.

He'd already had to stave off requests to see her burnt. The concept of hostages was another thing that didn't seem to exist in the eyes of the devout. Nor was hindsight, something which made him regret ever broaching the topic of conversion in his offer to the Free Folk.

"There was no such term decreed by me nor in my name." Stannis said tersely to put the after to a close. "They will join us when they are prepared."

"Under the command of an oath breaking bastard!" Ser Justin Massey protested.

"Lord-Commander Mallister's words were clear." Stannis gritted his teeth together, eyes fixed on the map before them. "I'll hear no more of this. Jon Snow has secured the aid of the Free Folk and granted us some six thousand new blades."

"But your Grace, bastards are by their very nature deceitful creatures and Wildlings know no true god or king." Ser Justin implored. "What if he sells their aid to the Boltons?"

"Are these concerns genuine or born of the fear that you will lose whatever imagined claim you seek upon Winterfell?" Stannis demanded, silencing the man. "Let not your own ambitions guide you, Ser Justin, for they are as clear as day to me."

"I…I only serve you, your grace." The man said feebly.

"Then continue to do so. Silently." Stannis said curtly and returned his attention to the map. "The Boltons wouldn't dare strike as far as the Gift. The weather impedes them as much as it does us."

There were two primary strongholds on both sides: Last Hearth and Karhold for Stannis' armies; the Dreadfort and Winterfell for the Boltons and any houses that followed them. None of them could be hit with a dedicated assault, not with how particularly vicious the climate in the North could be. Warfare during winter was something that just didn't happen, not if any commander valued the lives of their troops. But warfare in a northern winter was suicidal unless careful steps were taken.

Permanent structures that could hold warmth became more valuable than gold. Abandoned keeps and villages were occupied, repaired as best as possible and made accessible by paths dug through the rising snow by the Clansmen. Horses were housed away from the elements, clothing suited to the weather was dispersed among the ranks to stave off cold, clansmen shared their knowledge with their southern and essosi comrades. Anything and everything was being done to stave off the loss of men and horses to the cold.

It didn't save everyone, but he had no reports of entire companies being found buried in the snow. If he could hold out long enough for the Free Folk to undergo enough training to be of use he could overpower the Boltons with sheer numbers. Even most of the hardy Northmen could not march through the harshest chill like those from Beyond the Wall could.

"We could move our fleet down the east coast to strike at White Harbour." Ser Godry suggested. "They have not bent the knee to their sovereign."

"And in doing so we will unite the Northmen that have yet to take a side under the Flayed Man." A sell-sword commander, Captain Syronos Dirrin of the Free Blades of Braavos, spoke up from where he reclined in a seat at one end of the table. "You propose besieging the North's largest city? Perhaps offering its lords to your red god? Perhaps while we're at it you might consider burning a little girl alive, in full view for everyone to witness no less. Maybe walk up to the Bolton army and save them the trouble?"

Ser Godry's face took on a red shade as his hand tightened around his sword's hilt. "Speak with respect, sell-sword."

"I address his Grace with the proper acknowledgement of his rank." Syronos Dirrin grinned, twirling a knife between his fingers before placing the tip against the table. "As I do with you, Ser Godry. You are so eager to find new enemies that you would put us at odds with every man in the North if you had it your way."

"You would claim know more than us of fighting in this unholy land?" Ser Justin demanded.

"I would claim to know more than you of fighting in _any_ land." Syronos Dirrin slid his knife back into his belt and pushed his chair back so he could stand and step around the table. "While you wet your blade with the green blood of a boy in a tourney, I participated in conflicts far and wide against enemies that would make you piss your precious armour until it rusts. If we cannot directly engage the Boltons right now we must do the next best thing: gather as many allies to our side as can be reached and whittle away as many of the enemy's supporters as can be targeted."

He tapped two locations in the Wolfswood. "Ironrath and Highpoint. They stand within striking range and are strongholds of the Whitehills, yes? Highpoint is their home and heavily fortified, but Ironrath?"

"The Forresters stand among our ranks now." Stannis said, recalling the value of the Ironwood that made the house famous. "Rodrik, Elaena and Talia Forrester are sheltered at Rillwater Crossing."

"They strike from the south with the Glenmore army." Syronos grinned. "The Whitehills send men from Highpoint to protect their investment. Their obsession with obtaining the Ironwood groves are known even in Braavos, they won't surrender them easily now that they hold them."

"Then we strike at Highpoint while their men ride to lift the siege of Ironrath." Stannis concluded. "Can it be taken?"

A derisive snort came from one of those seated away from the table and the gathering of knights. A man with a large round gut climbed to his feet, draped in furs and studded leathers of the Mountain clans. "Can a fat fish be speared?" He asked rhetorically. "So proud of their castle, those Whitehills. Boasted of their enemies being envious of it. Boasted that Gregor Forrester was envious of it."

He spat on the floor. "Two-score ways to climb it on one wall alone. My men will take it like we took this place. Twenty good men with ropes and knives is all it'll take once it empties out."

"What if they see this for what it is?" Ser Justin asked. "They can't imagine that we'd sit idle."

"Boy, you don't know Gryff Whitehill!" Hugo 'Big Bucket' Wull cackled. "His father had more fat in his head than brains and even he was smarter than that runt."

"Forgive my confusion, but my glance at the lineages of Northern houses led me to believe it was Torrhen Whitehill who rules Highpoint." Syronos commented, not unkindly.

"He does, but he and his best have gone to Winterfell to answer Bolton's call." Stannis clarified, holding up a roll of parchment to show to the Braavosi. "Weeks ago a Whitehill man risked his life in the snow to tell us as much, claiming to be sent by Gwyn Whitehill. Gryff Whitehill retains command over both castles and oft travels between them."

"Can her word be trusted?" Syronos asked.

"I remember the bad business concerning her and Asher Forrester." Sybelle Glover spoke up. "If Ludd carried Asher's head to Ironrath as the whispers claim, maybe his daughter seeks revenge for her man."

"We will plan for the chance that Highpoint refuses to take the bait." Stannis declared, tracing one finger along likely paths that would be favoured by cavalry. "If they do, we will have traps prepared along their best routes and block off the ones that we can to herd them. If they do not, we will help the Forresters retake Ironrath all the same by besieging it until the Whitehill garrison starves or submits. Should Griff Whitehill be transitioning between them at any time we will take him alive, but we cannot hope to predict his location at any given time. Chief Wull, prepare a raiding party of forty men if the Whitehills ride to relieve Ironrath. Captain Dirrin, your men have proven resilient enough that I trust you to lead the strike on Ironrath from the north. Take a company of Clansmen with you for support. We will send word to Rillwater Crossing to strike from the south in one week from now, then wait and see how Gryff Whitehill reacts."

Hugo Wull nodded and shuffled away. "Finally." The chief grumbled.

Syronos bowed with the full grace of a Bravo. "By your command, King Stannis."

The presence of Hugo Wull, Syronos Dirrin and the Mountain Chiefs felt like a breath of fresh air to Stannis. Finally he competent men not consumed by dogma aside from his Onion Knight who was hard at work far. He would need to make sure not to show favouritism to them lest the devout in his ranks come to doubt him, but tonight he could safely trust in someone in his immediate company to do something without starting a fire.

 _Ser Davos_ , Stannis thought as he began to issue assignments to the less than pleased knights and lords that remained, _I pray your expedition is more fortuitous than mine._

The doors to the great hall had barely opened to allow the war council to disperse when a man raced through. "Your Grace!" The man, a direct retainer of Dragonstone, dropped to one knee. "I ride from Last Hearth, your Grace."

Stannis had been anticipating this moment. "What does Jon Umber say?"

"He was…most furious when he initially heard of the crossing of ten thousand Wildlings, your Grace." The runner said. "His uncles, Mors Crowfood and Hothor Whoresbane had come to blows along with some of their men. His son the Smalljon was set to take every rider they could muster and ride to slaughter the Wildling host."

Most would have taken this for being the end of the message, but Stannis made note of the past-tense used by the runner. Was over is, had over have, leaving the possibility of a change.

"But then…a wagon from the Night's Watch arrived." The runner continued, shuddering as he stared towards the hall's nearest hearth. "From Castle Black, by the command of Lord-Commander Mallister. It carried with it a single crate. And inside it- gods, your grace, I'd heard of the claims before but never seen it…"

"Speak, man!" Syronos urged him. "What did the crate hold?"

"…it was the steward from Castle Black, Bowen Marsh." The runner exhaled heavily as his eyes began to water. "But it wasn't him. Not anymore. His eyes…oh gods, his eyes! Blue and soulless, your Grace. He howled like a demon and fought against layers of chains. The Black Brothers showed him to everyone. It was a Wight, your Grace! A corpse made living by foul magic!"

Stannis had believed the claims of the Watch even if he had not seen any Wights himself. He'd believed it when Jon Snow warned him to burn all of the dead on both sides after he routed Mance Rayder at the Wall. He'd believed it when questioning hundreds of Free Folk prisoners and seen the genuine terror in their eyes. He'd believed it when Melisandre urged him to go north and fight the true battle for the sake of the realm.

Now everyone else would believe it.

By now the runner had managed to compose himself with some aid from Syronos. "The Steward, he was executed for his part in Alliser Thorne's mutiny. They hung him, and Othell Yarwyck and Thorne…then they hung them on the north side of the Wall and waited for them to start moving before bringing them back across. The former First Ranger and First Builder remain in Denys Mallister's custody, but he has donated the First Steward for you to do with as you please."

 _The perfect evidence._ Stannis realized.

The other Kings had ignored the summons either because they were committed to battle or didn't believe in the tales of the Long Night. Many Lords, even the Northmen, refused to believe it and carried on with their infighting. Any who saw the rising dead for themselves could no longer deny the truth, nor could they deny that of all the claimants he was the only one who gave aid to the Watch in preparing for it, who would give aid before the Wall itself fell.

Those who had not left the room before this announcement were gathered around once more, faces pale and eyes wide in disbelief. The Clansmen weren't surprised so much as concerned, having grown up with tales of the Long Night passed down since the first one.

"The Umbers…stopped fighting after that, your Grace." The runner swallowed from an offered wineskin. "They're sending half of their men to help man the Wall now. The Wight…it is being sent to Karhold next, with orders to hold it until you send word."

Stannis nodded. "You rode hard and far to deliver this. See yourself to the barracks." He looked to Larence Snow, a ward of House Glover who filled in as a Page. "Snow. Race to the rookery and have a raven sent to Karhold. Their orders are to hold the Wight there and have it observed it at all times until I write to them with further orders."

Before his treachery, Ser Alliser had gone to King's Landing with a Wight's hand to curry aid from the Lannisters and their puppet usurper. It had become immobile by the time he got there and was sent back in shame and ridicule. If the same might happen to this Wight for whatever reason he would want to know how long it took, if it occurred overtime or happened as suddenly as a puppet with its strings cut.

At the Blackwater he had made the mistake of underestimating his enemy, ignoring what couldn't be seen or guessed at to charge in recklessly. That had cost him the majority of his fleet and army and almost ended his campaign entirely. He would suffer no ignorance this time. He would know everything that he could about this new foe before coming to face them in battle.

Larence Snow quickly wrote down Stannis' words and raced out of the hall with best speed.

Syronos Dirrin flashed Ser Godry a grin. "I'd be careful with what you say about the Lord Snow from this point on." He advised. "The way things look, he and his Wildling and Watch friends are doing your Chosen Prince more favours in the last month than you and your fire worshippers have in the whole war."

Xxx

 **The Bay of Seals**

The ship rocked as it ploughed through the Bay of Seals, proudly displaying the banner of a stag in a flaming heart as it approached the mountainous mass that was Skagos. The crew was chosen by Ser Davos, made up of some of the finest Sell-Sails in Stannis' fleet and supplemented by a mixture of Thenns, Karstark Men-at-Arms and Baratheon Knights totalling out at more than a hundred blades.

In the captain's cabin, Ser Davos, Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane and Ser Narbert Grandison gathered together to speak privately. Grandison, by the command of Queen Selyse, represented the Baratheon contingent. She had insisted that her Royal Husband be represented in some capacity on the Skagos Expedition…and that Melisandre, who had somehow worked her way on board, be given ample protection.

"I go where my Lord commands me." The Priestess had said, arriving at East-Watch close behind them. "And in the flames he shows me that my place is on Skagos."

Jon had been tempted to deny her, not just because the Stranger hollered at him to do so either. The more that he heard of her and encountered her flock the less he wanted to be near her. He had succeeded in avoiding any further dialogue with her since they left East-Watch, but he had the feeling that she was merely permitting this evasion than actually failing at forcing a meeting.

With Skagos mere hours off now he put the Red Priestess out of his mind.

"Commander Pyke's last patrol near Skagos spoke of ships from Driftwood Hall." Davos drew a line down through the Bay of Seals. "Some Free Folk who tries to bypass the wall by sea were sunk by longships of House Stane."

"Will they be of any threat to this ship?" Jon Snow asked.

"They don't have any real navy beyond that." Davos shook his head. "They're raiders, much like the Ironborn. This ship is armed with Skorpions and we'll be leaving behind at least thirty men plus the crew. They won't go after anything that's guaranteed to kill most of them."

"Smart of them." Grandison huffed. "Will they trouble us on land?"

"There's no clear answer." Jon said, partly letting the Stranger speak through him. "We'll only know once we land. We're here for my brother, but if we can convince the Skagosi to enter the war on our side or at least cease any raids on fleeing Free Folk we can consider that a victory."

"Way I remember it, the Skaggs' bendin' the knee was more of just a promise to stop raidin' the North." Tormund commented. "Instead they just started raidin' us. Good luck makin' 'em stop."

"Driftwood Hall is the closest to where we'll land, so we may as well begin there." Davos suggested, setting a figurine of a ship over Driftwood Hall on the map. "It might give us a chance to measure the isle's hospitality and see what to expect from the other Houses here."

The Stranger, standing over Jon's shoulder, crossed his arms and leaned over the map. "The stone-born never suffer visitors easily. If Rickon is here and yet lives they would have needed good reason to not take his head."

Jon shared this concern in his own words and was answered by Tormund. "Sometimes they'd take children from us." He said. "Maybe they found the boy and took him."

"The rumours describe him being accompanied by a large black wolf." Davos said. "Would they take a direwolf with them too?"

"If they've got First Men blood in them, they've got skin changers." Tormund shrugged. "And skin changers love new skins. The bigger, the better. A direwolf skin? They'd call that worthy of a king."

Jon felt his hands clenched around the edge of the table. "What if the direwolf already has a warg?"

"Then they're probably living like a king."

Xxx

They came close enough to trust that longboats could safely carry them the rest of the way. Thirty Karstark men, twenty Thenns and a dozen Baratheon men led by Ser Narbert rowed onto the nearest available stretch of shoreline, passing into the shadow of the high reaching cliffs. Ghost hopped out with Jon and scrambled up onto the muddy sand where he shook his coat dry.

"Fat lot of help you are." Jon chastised, almost single handedly pulling the longboat up onto shore himself.

"Can't blame him!" Tormund called over the crash of the waves as they regrouped. "Gods, I just remembered I hate the sea for a damn good reason. Only thing it's good for: the dead can't swim."

"Driftwood will be north along the coast." Davos said. "It's supposed to be nestled in a valley. They can see the coast from where they are but fuck all if we can see them. They'll know we're coming, so let's not look like we're coming to pick a fight."

"Agreed." Jon whistled to Ghost. "I'll go on ahead and scout through the forest. Find a secure location and set up camp, somewhere that won't be spotted from far off and preferably made defensible easily enough."

"How will you find us after?" Davos asked.

"He'll find us, don't argue that." Tormund told him and trudged away from the water, carrying one of the longboats alongside a formation of Thenns as the rest of the landing party followed behind. "Also, watch for unicorns."

"Unicorns?" Jon stopped. "That legend's real?"

"You fucked death in the face and fought an army of dead men." Tormund deadpanned. "Anything can be real now, Snow."

Xxx

There was something about Skagos that reminded Jon of the Godswood back in Winterfell. The deeper he went into the forest, the higher he climbed away from the coast the more apparent it became that this island had known the steps of man but rarely the bite of an axe blade or a pick that would accompany them anywhere else. There were trails that had been made by both man and beast, but no roads large enough to support wagons made for trade and transport.

What struck him most was the silence. Anywhere else in the world he would know that a silent forest boded ill, but this silence reminded him of the Godswood because rather than a silence born of fear…it felt more like one born of reverence.

The trees were old, older than most that grew in the North. He could hear the spirits of rock and earth beneath his feet, the whispers of rustling branches carried on the wind.

Kneeling down, he felt hoof prints in the mud that came from no horse. It was more like that of a goat, only…far larger than any he'd ever seen.

"The Old Magic is strong here." The Stranger told him. "The stone men have jealously guarded their lands."

"I once heard that the Faith Militant tried to expand here long before the Targaryen Conquest." Jon reminisced, rising and continuing the climb. "The North didn't claim Skagos at the time. The Most Devout thought they could turn this island into a forward base for another invasion of the North."

"And none lived to tell of their venture." The Stranger predicted.

"Aye."

"The gods of the forest suffered greatly at the hands of the Hollow Seven." The spectral figure brushed a hand across a winding root that broke through the ground only to spiral back beneath it off to one side. "They do not seek war, not by nature, but something here was worth defending. Perhaps we will find it."

Jon stopped and nocked an arrow in his bow. The Stranger approached him and followed his gaze, combining their sights as they peered through the lens of the Wraith World.

A silhouette was perched on a ledge further up the trail, overshadowing it. A single horn jutted up from its head as dark eyes scanned the terrain below, stopping as they set on Jon.

"Coran'or…" The Stranger whispered in awe. "One of the Elder beasts, the Old Horns…these are the unicorns that are spoken of."

"Is it dangerous?" Jon asked.

"Only to the disrespectful and the ignorant." The Stranger said as the figure stood up on for legs and then, with shocking agility, navigated its way down the steep slope to stand on the path ahead. "Approach with arms bared but make no move to attack. This creature is an elder among his kind, he won't suffer disrespect or weakness."

Jon exchanged his bow for Longclaw but made sure to hold it down at his side in a way that would be poor form for entering battle. As he got close enough he could see that this so called unicorn was nothing like what the stories told, save for the iconic horn sprouting from its skull.

Unicorns were described as beautiful and ethereal creatures, appealing to the ideals of young maidens and aspiring knights. The typical depiction would be an equine, pure white like Ghost with hair that need never be combed and emitting a warm glow that would enthrall the coldest of hearts…

What stood before Jon was a giant goat.

He could understand why it might be mistaken for a horse, given its physique beneath a thick coat of hair that formed a mane along a long neck as well as a short beard hanging down from the lower jaw. The horn was as long as Longclaw's blade, perhaps longer yet, and curved slightly along its length from where it sprouted between the unicorn's eyes. Ahead of its small ears.

It stared at him with an intellect that he had gotten accustomed to among wargs, yet this was no human gaze that transfixed him.

"Stop." The Stranger said softly. "Let us see if he deems us worthy of more than death."

Slowly, the elder unicorn moved in closer, lowering its head closer to Jon's level. Were his heart beating he was sure that it would be on the verge of punching through his ribs by now, but as things stood Jon simply didn't fear this creature's wrath as he once would have…but he still held a healthy respect for something with scars the likes of which he could glean beneath its coat.

After sniffing the air around him the unicorn bowed its head low. Jon repeated this at the Stranger's urging and felt his nostrils assaulted by a repugnant scent as the Elder Unicorn brushed up against him.

 _Times like this that I'm glad that breathing is more habit than necessity._

Jon brushed his free hand through the unicorn's thick mane.

"We greet you in peace, old friend of the gods." The Stranger spoke through Jon. "We seek a son of the Kings of Winter who has been brought here. A child and his wolf with a coat black as night. Do you know where he has gone?"

As the unicorn's eyes rose to meet his Jon saw them turn into the same pale orbs that he'd associated with wargs. Something pressed against the borders of his mind and he reflexively moved to repel it.

"Let him in." The Stranger said softly. "His mind is the likes of which could shatter yours in conflict. Let him in, Jon Snow. He is a friend of the gods as we are."

Jon reluctantly threw down his barriers against every instinct that screamed at him. The unicorn brushed through the opening he left for it and expelled a rivulet of experience and recollection into the ocean that was his mind.

He saw a black wolf stalking a herd of unicorn, younger and aggressive herd members. It pounced on one that trailed too far off and ripped out its throat after taking an injury to its flank. A boy came to its aid, shouting and firing off a bow while a woman blew a horn, summoning more of the stone men. The herd withdrew, urged by countless generations of dealing with the false-claws of the stone men.

This wasn't long ago. Mere weeks.

And the stone men…their armour, their very flesh was painted with with green overtop. He could see a shape of something, something that the unicorns would sometimes spear out of the shallows with their horns.

The elder withdrew from his mind and left Jon shaking from the experience.

"Thank you." He managed to say.

The elder closed its eyes and bowed its head slightly in acknowledgement before turning away, bounding up into the greenery and vanishing from sight and hearing in moments.

"You might be the first man to ever truly speak with a unicorn in centuries, maybe longer." The Stranger told him.

"Are all unicorns wargs?" Jon asked.

"The gift of the gods was not limited to Man or Child. Once many beasts that roamed the land possessed it and used it to communicate, crossing boundaries of species to learn and interact." The Stranger answered. "Now they are gone…reduced to the animals you know today. Perhaps even these elder creatures shall one day join them. This island might be their only refuge in all of the world."

To think that once Unicorns had roamed from the North to Dorne and even in Essos and now were cut down to a precious few. It was a crime that something so wise and ancient was doomed to fade away. The giants were a few hundred, the Children almost certainly gone…and as it turned out they were only some of many who walked under the sun after the Long Night only to fall by the hand of man.

"Do not weep for them, Jon Snow." The Stranger shook his head. "Death is part of life. If we cannot truly die then we can never truly live. You and I should know that better than any man alive today."

Jon couldn't deny the wisdom in those words. "We need to move on." He said. "The Skagosi hunt in-land, we know that now. They send their children to hunt one of the unicorns as a rite of adulthood."

"Not merely adulthood, else there would be none left." The Stranger replied. "A rite of ascension. Perhaps the Giantsbane's assumption of young Rickon living as a king was not so inaccurate."

Xxx

 **TheLaughingMan1 said:** **Magnificent chapter. Love the idea of Rickon ruling the Skagosi.**

 **MasterOfDragonsGod said:** **great chapter**

 **FuryJoe said:** **great chapter**

 **Richard1081 said:** **Will we be seeing Jon ride a unicorn or some other mythical beast any time soon  
Also Jon truly is undead considering his lack of heart beat and the fact that he doesn't need to breathe, makes me wonder if will retain his undead status past the war of the dawn**

Maaaaaybe you will. Maaaaybe you won't. Both to the unicorn riding and retaining undead status.

 **zmanj said:** **Great chapter. As far as a "by the power of greyskull" moment goes,this was extremely good. Whether it's Aragorn recieving the Anduril, Buffy claiming the Slayer Sword, or in this case, the Hammer of Bran the builder... i love this kind of stuff. There aren't many fanfics for this series which I enjoy. This one, "Robb Returns" and 1 or 2 others are extremely well done.**

 **zmanj said: Lol, ok so you mention Robb Returns too. That story has the best use of the "Gondor calls for aid" trope ever. "The Stark calls for aid..." Rather than Wish fulfillment per se, that is literally the intervention of the old gods via deus ex machina. Because knowledge is power, and "knowing is half the battle" Interesting to see Stannis both as a mad burner, but slightly more sane than cannon.**

 **zmanj said: Oh, you do a great Tormund, that was a perfect characterization. And then, Jon actually does meet a unicorn. Bwa ha ha ha ha ha. I have to laugh at that because the subsequent discussion on how the great beasts of old fall from existence into legend is quite sad. Humanity has all too few friends, probably why I always loved the Bolo sci-fi series. (Sentient AI Tanks with a hard-wired sense of honor and duty that makes their human operators often pale by comparison.) Also why the death of the Asgard race in Stargate SG1 was so terrible. Looking forward to the next chapter.**

End of Chapter


	11. Chapter Ten: House of Kings

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Ten: House of Kings**

 **Winterfell**

"Absolutely not."

Roose Bolton was not used to repeating himself when it came to issuing orders. Normally he operated on the system of giving a single reminder of this before having the offender transferred somewhere far from his presence, flogged or otherwise disposed of depending on the severity of the offence and their station. Unfortunately the offender in question was in a unique position that made dealing with him a process which required some amount of flexibility and tact.

After all, adding the title of Kinslayer to his repertoire of disreputable titles (which already included kingslayer and oathbreaker) wouldn't be helpful towards realizing the long denied destiny of his bloodline.

"The longer we sit idly, the weaker we look!" Ramsay hissed. "When Baratheon came to the North he had no support and an army of foreign sellswords. Now he has the Umbers, the Mormonts, the Glovers-"

"And Alys Karstark and any who didn't follow Arnolf." Roose finished, more focused on the recent batch of scrolls to be delivered by raven. "Despite what you may think, I am not ignorant to this."

"Then why aren't we doing anything?" Ramsay demanded, pacing back and forth across the solar that once belonged to Ned Stark, or rather the approximate reconstruction of that same room. "At this rate he'll win the North without a single battle!"

"And you think that you and your…twenty good men, was it?" Roose paused to look up while dipping his quill in ink. "Will be able to do enough damage to him? His army isn't gathered in one place, in the open and waiting for you to sneak in during a blizzard. They aren't made only of levies and conscripts but seasoned mercenaries and anyone experienced enough to survive and zealous enough to endure Stannis' defeat in the south. Add to it the Mountain Clans who are immeasurably superior trackers to you and your Bastard's Boys. Your death in such a foolish endeavour would be worse than any number of the lesser houses joining with him."

"Then what?!" Ramsay leaned on his father's desk. "What are we doing? We aren't fighting, we aren't raiding, meanwhile more houses trickle over to his side-"

"And in the meantime to Stannis Baratheon it will seem that we are reactive at best and incapable at worst." Roose began to compose his next letter. "When the weather lets up he will gather his forces and march south for either Winterfell or the Dreadfort. The loss of either would give him the clout needed to unite anyone else who would see us brought low."

"Which is why we need to strike _first!_ " Ramsay insisted.

Roose allowed a ghost of a smile to cross his face as he rolled up and bound the parchment. "The action of a desperate man." He said dismissively. "Tell me, Ramsay…what do you know of our house? Of our words?"

His son looked at him, shifting between confusion and irritation.

"Our blades are sharp." Roose beckoned to Maester Wolkan, who took the letter while keeping his head bowed meekly and shuffled out of the solar. "That wasn't always our message to the world, Ramsay. Once it was 'A flayed man holds no secrets'. When I was a boy being tutored, my Maester told me those weren't our words but that people 'heavily associate' them with us."

After settling in behind his desk again Roose began on his next message. "My father gave me the true lesson. When we ruled as the Red Kings we proudly flayed man or woman alive. Openly. Without fear of condemnation. Our words were a warning to enemy and ally alike, a reminder of the fate that befell those who dared to encroach upon or betray us." He stopped and scowled as he realized he'd bungled a sentence, the context of which was critical to the body of this particular message.

The Flints of Widow's Peak were too closely tied to White Harbor to be trusted, even when discounting their relatives in the Mountain Clans. The Flints of Flint's Finger on the other hand, with the newly legitimized bastard brother of the late Robin Flint at the head of the house, were more malleable and cut off from their cousins by enough generations for there to be little love between the different branches. It would be unfortunate if the wrong Flint were to be made privy to troop movements and long term plans.

Setting the parchment aflame and dropping it into a metal container to safely ensure its disposal, Roose reached for a fresh strip and started over. Somehow his son had possessed enough sense not to make any noise in the twenty seconds of silence.

"Then the Starks made us bend the knee, but that wasn't enough. With other kings they would butcher the men, take the women in marriage and absorb their bloodline. With us however they saw fit to let us live even after putting many of our banner men to the sword. They outlawed the practice of flaying. They made us give up the words of our house to take another. Our. Blades. Are. Sharp."

He emphasized those four word parallel to the ones he wrote on the fresh parchment.

"We didn't select that. They did. We accepted it on pain of death until we made it our own."

Roose could almost hear Ramsay's mind struggle to keep up with the tale he wove. His son's true talents lay in butchering and flaying. Matters of intellect were far beyond him. If only Domeric had heeded the order to never approach his bastard half-brother…

Still, what was done was done and Roose was not one to let something as irksome as kin slaying derail his aims. Gods willing he wouldn't need to deal with Ramsay's proclivities any longer than necessary.

"And then when we rebelled twice they spared us but gleefully mounted the heads of every lord and lady to stand by us on pikes. Even their own kin in the Greystarks. Do you know why?"

"They couldn't be rid of us just like that." Ramsay answered. "They needed us!"

"Wrong." Roose bound the parchment and set it aside for when Wolkan returned. "They could have put anyone up in our place at any time and dealt with any short term consequence long ago. Our retainers would bend the knee or join those who had been made examples of. Loyal houses and smallfolk always benefited from Stark victories and generosity. Ask the Mormonts or the Manderleys."

Roose scraped his chair back and stood up.

"They spare us so the threat we represented wouldn't disappear." He stepped out from behind the desk. "Our blades are sharp. A warning. One made by the Starks… _for_ the Starks. To remind them of us, should they ever begin to rest easy in their rule. They saw us as their greatest rivals and made us into their greatest weapons for guaranteeing their continued rule over the North. When we rose, others who were dissatisfied or resentful rose with us and were put down. Men were butchered, women and daughters were married off to loyal or newly raised lords, sons sent to serve out their lives on the Wall. All except us. Other houses would try to rebel without us. You can guess how they fared from how you can't even guess their _names_ anymore."

Roose stopped in front of his son, cold pale eyes staring into furious pale eyes. "Until Ned Stark. His father never groomed him to inherit Winterfell, leaving his upbringing to Jon Arryn and his concepts of honour and chivalry. The old lessons were lost with Brandon and Rickard Stark, but Ned Stark would have ruled without fear of rebellion from us in his lifetime had fate been kinder."

He gripped Ramsay's shoulder and leaned in. "Because he made an example of House Targaryen, of Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower. By the time he returned to the North his rule was guaranteed and I resigned myself to simply prepare my successor to resume the long wait. But he was not taught as his brother was, he was the first broken link in a chain stretching back thousands of years. He couldn't pass the warning down to Robb Stark."

His hand squeezed Ramsay's shoulder through his tunic.

"Our Blades are Sharp." Rose released his son. "And those blades were always poised at the Lord of Winterfell's back, ready to strike if the Wolves showed weakness. When we would rise we would find them ready for us, ready to make examples of our allies and reaffirm their authority before leaving us to try again generations later. They mocked us for it in private, laughed at our failures, but when I realized that Robb Stark would lose the war…I knew that our time had finally come."

He picked up a flaying Knife from his desk and held it up. "Robb Stark failed to heed his ancestors' warnings. I won't stop Stannis Baratheon or Jon Snow from repeating that mistake. Let them think we are vulnerable, let them think they have all the time in the world to build and prepare…because in the end, like the Kings of Winter of Old, we will be ready for them. This war is already won, they just haven't seen it yet. When it is over I will purge the houses that side with our enemies and secure our control of the North for all of time."

He resumed his original seat. "But to do that, I cannot yet meet them in open battle or risk losing my heir in a foolhardy raid. You will keep our men from doing anything more than patrol and defend the lands that we still hold with punitive raids on any that bend the knee to Stannis. We will take hostages from houses that have yet to pick a side and make overtures to those who have joined us. Once the loyal have been sorted out from the treacherous and the snow settles enough to allow for open conflict…"

He looked up, and for the first time in memory Ramsay actually shivered at the cold glint in his father's eyes.

"Our blades will fall upon them and eliminate the last opposition to our rule before winter strikes."

It was said that the Starks were always right in the end: Winter was coming, anything else in between was time to prepare for anything that might threaten the pack.

Fortunately, at least in the mind of Roose Bolton, being right in the long run meant nothing if there was no more pack to worry about.

Xxx

 **Ironrath**

They had come just past mid day and captured or slaughtered those harvesting the ironwood. The elite guard of House Glenmore, eager to avenge the torture and murder of Arthur Glenmore, gave only a single chance to surrender before filling any man still holding so much as a hatchet with arrows. This time they were led by Gerold Glenmore, once a cousin of a lesser branch through Lord Glenmore's younger brother and now the new heir of Rillwater Crossing.

With Rodrik Forrester at his side, they made short work of the Whitehills' workers. The only warning that the garrison at Ironrath had was a number of panicked and short lived cries of pain or calls for help. A few trickled in back towards the gates, newly repaired after the Whitehill attack, and were let through before the castle was sealed.

Then the banners were struck: a black sword amidst a white tree over a black field for House Forrester, a nocked and drawn white bow and arrow on a red field for House Glenmore and several other minor houses and clans gathered from around the Wolfswood now sworn to Stannis. Each only contributed a handful of men, no more than a hundred and no less than twenty, but it added up to give them a force of nearly a thousand besieging the ancestral Forrester home.

Day gave way to night as the Northmen surrounded the southern approach, cutting off every road and hunter's path. The Whitehills remained firmly barricaded inside, with archers patrolling the ramparts in shifts.

It was by the next morning that fortune shined upon them. Just as predicted by King Stannis, the Whitehills at Highpoint rode out to lift the siege of Ironrath after a raven was allowed to get through. Clansmen and sellswords hidden in the woods ambushed and harassed the Whitehill cavalry, cutting off their retreat and giving them no choice but to press on.

Right into a gauntlet that kept up through the night and ended with a formation of Clansmen and Essosi dragging a prisoner into the camp, led by Syronos Dirrin who explained to Gerold Glenmore that he had orders to take this one alive and deliver him to the Lord of House Forrester.

A gift from King Stannis, the sellsword had proclaimed, to show that those who answer his call will be rewarded the justice that has been absent under the rule of the flayed men.

"Get the fuck off me!" Gryff Whitehill snarled, writhing in the grasp of two Glenmore scouts who dragged him by his bound arms and threw him face down into the mud where he sputtered and cursed. "You fucking- my brother will have your-"

"Head?"

Gryff froze and turned pale as his good eye looked up at the bearded, scarred and stone-cold visage of Rodrik Forrester.

"Is that what you were going to say?" Rodrik next down, concealing the pleasure he felt at how Gryff recoiled away in fright, clearly nursing fresh memories of the beating that Rodrik had administered to him…the very same one that cost him his eye. "Last time it was the Boltons and that they'd flay me and my whole family alive. You Whitehills sure like making threats. Love it, actually, at least when you're the ones with the bigger army."

He tapped the eye patch covering the evidence of Gryff's humbling from two years ago. "Not so fun when you've no one to protect you, is it? Though I thought you'd have learned that during your first visit." Rodrik spoke like he and Gryff were old friends in the midst of reunion. "The one where your fat fuck of a father had to run to the Boltons for help to release you. Where's papa now, Gryff?"

His gauntlet clad hand curled into a fist and drove itself into the bound man's face, driving him down onto his back with a pained cry.

"Where is he now, Gryff?!" Rodrik roared, seizing him by the roots of his hair and making him look up. "He's dead. I took his bloated head off and now the Boltons can't save you."

"P-please!" Gryff whimpered. "The-The Black! I'll take the Black! You'll never see me-"

Before he could finish his face was pressed down into the mud, muffling his high pitched squeal until Rodrik pulled him back up.

"The Watch is too good for you and your kind." Rodrik spat in Gryff's face. "No. You've only one thing that I want and it's long overdue. For Talia, Ryon, Ethan, Elena and everyone you and your fucking house killed stealing my home away."

Gryff's good eye bulged in panic as he saw an ironwood stump cleared off. He shrieked and struggled with renewed vigour before Gerold Glenmore drove the pommel of his axe into the back of his head, not hard enough to kill.

"Least his father died with some fucking dignity." The heir of Rillwater Crossing growled.

Gerold wasn't as handsome as his cousin Arthur, bearing scars from the Ironborn invasion including a missing left ear and a scar that left some teeth on the same side perpetually exposed. Despite this he was no less respected as a warrior and a leader by the Glenmore Elite Guard and had killed no less than six Whitehill workers and three sentries with his bow. It was thanks to him and that same proficiency that Rodrik, his sister and Ser Royland had not been run down while fleeing to the Crossing where Elena had convinced her father to take them into his protection.

It was also thanks to him that Rodrik would live to gain vengeance for his slain brothers, sister and father.

"Gryff Whitehill." Rodrik unsheathed his family's ancestral blade, a great sword that needed two hands to wield effectively. "In the name of King Stannis of House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Roynar and the First Men, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm; for the crimes of treason, oath breaking, murder and the unlawful seizure of lands: I, Rodrik Forrester, do sentence you to death."

"You can't do this to me!" Gryff wailed as his head came to be forced down upon the stump. "Torrhen will bleed your cunt wife's lands and rape your sister to death! The Boltons will flay you and make you watch everyone you love die! DO YOU HEAR ME FORRESTER?! I-"

Thunk.

Just like that, with one clean slice, Gryff Whitehill's head rolled, face twisted in an expression of rage and terror with the occasional twitch until it finally fell still. There were no cheers or taunts to be made at the remains, no satisfaction to help dull the pain of everything that the Whitehills and their Bolton masters had inflicted on their lands and families.

They felt nothing as they secured the head in a pouch with a letter detailing the events leading to its present condition.

Nothing as that pouch was attached to a horse's saddle and sent off towards the gates of Ironrath.

Nothing at the horrified cries that came when the poor sod standing guard was forced to investigate and see what had become of the very man who was supposed to have ridden to their aid, their one and only remaining hope to break the siege.

Nothing when the Whitehill men within dipped their banners and pleaded for mercy.

And nothing when they put the head of every last soldier on a pike and mounted them on the ramparts of the recaptured castle.

Nothing at all.

Xxx

 **Skagos**

When Jon returned, the company had struck camp within a cavern that had been scouted thoroughly for signs of habitation, be it by man or beast. It had access to a stream from which they could refill their water skins and provided a hidden refuge from any threats that might prowl the woods or the beaches, also allowing the sentries an advantageous view of the only approach that any sizeable force could use to reach the opening.

These same sentries almost shot him when he leapt down from a cliff overlooking the approach, further experimenting with his physical limits and having lost track of how far he'd been when he made the jump. None the less they recognized his black attire and the white direwolf that had quickly caught up to him, lowering their arrows.

"Lord Snow?" One of them wearing the Karstark crest composed himself. "Dav- Sers Davos, Narbert and the Giantsbane await within. They want you to speak with them as soon as you can."

With the message received, Jon gave the man a nod, bid them to remain as swift to react should anyone else approach – save for the unicorns, as he had no desire to make enemies of them and then pressed on into the cavern. He passed clusters of supplies and bed rolls where men had gathered close together, leaving the centre of the cave free for easy movement in any direction. Towards the back of it, near where bowls had been set up to catch rain water dripping in through cracks in the ceiling, he found the leaders of the expedition huddled around a map weighed down with a rock on each corner.

"How went your walk?" Ser Davos asked, spotting him first and drawing his presence to Tormund and Ser Narbert's attention.

"Enlightening." Jon answered. "Have you had any trouble while I was out?"

"Not a whisper or a distant glance of anything that walks on two feet." Davos offered him a flask which Jon accepted a swig from. "We've gone unnoticed, thank whichever gods were at work for that."

Smart of him not to name anyone specific with so many religions stuffed into such a small place.

"The stonemen have Rickon." Jon told them. "They had him hunt and kill a unicorn."

"A unicorn?" Ser Narbert looked sceptical to say the least. "I've seen giants, I've seen the dead walk now. I've even seen a woman drink a cup filled with poison that struck a man dead in front of her. But…unicorns?"

"Nothing like what you southrons imagine," Tormund said derisively. "These aren't pretty little horses for your daughters to giggle about. They're stone cold like the Skaggs and they don't just let anyone hunt them."

"Except their leaders." Jon pointed to a portion of the map only a few leagues from where their camp was marked. "It was around here. He had his direwolf, Shaggydog, help him kill one that got separated from its herd. I found the symbol of a house there: some green sea creature that looked like a spider over a white field."

Davos reached into his pouch and produced a book. "Hold on. Hold on…like this?" He flipped it to a page which showed an artistic depiction of the creature. "A lobster?"

"That's the one."

"House Magnar." Tormund rumbled. "Used to be Stone Kings who ruled this rock, then they weren't. Sure like to remind anyone they meet of that, though."

"Doesn't that word mean 'lord' in your tongue?" Ser Narbert asked, looking decidedly amused by the realization. "Would that make their lord 'the Lord of House Lord' in common tongue? Lord of the Lords?"

"Tell me why we let these cinder worshippers accompany us." The Stranger growled. "They are extra mouths to feed at best and a hindrance waiting to happen at worst."

Jon slowly inhaled through his nose and rubbed one hand between Ghost's ears. "I'm sure that if given the chance he will gladly answer that to you in person, Ser Narbert." He said in a tone so dry it reminded several southerners within earshot of grim old Stannis' usual lack of amusement with the so called wits of his banner men. "Which is why you will stay behind with your men and guard the encampment."

Ser Narbert almost coughed up his last mouthful of wine. "What-what?!" His face took on a red hue. "My men and I are more than capable of dealing with these stone savages!"

"Your capacity for disrespect was established long before we ever departed East-Watch." Jon shot back. "The Skagosi are not the Free Folk, you are not Stannis leading thousands of fresh cavalry to run them down and I will not risk violence with the House of Magnar if it can be avoided. Let me be blunt Ser Narbert, I don't _trust_ you not to say or do something that will antagonize them."

"I will not be treated like some errant child, bastard." Ser Narbert hissed the last word, the corners of his mouth curling upward just enough for Jon to know that the knight, like many, took pleasure in reminding him of his status.

"Then you will be treated as insubordinate." Jon replied, one hand wrapping around Longclaw's hilt as Ghost bared his fangs. "Janos Slynt might tell you how unhealthy that mindset is, Ser Narbert."

He cut the knight off before Ser Narbert could get a word out. "Especially when you stand surrounded by Northmen who care not one lick for whichever god or king you fight for when you can't follow a simple command." He looked around the cavern to see that the Thenns and Karstark men at arms were climbing to their feet already, hands resting on weapons still safely secured. "You will remain here. You _will_ obey this order and nothing short of being overrun by an army will lift you from this spot until I relieve you of this duty or I will make it my personal mission to see that you are either sworn to the black or your head rolls."

Were he still vulnerable as he once was he would have added the possibility of the Skagosi taking his head as a condition of Ser Narbert's release from this order, but Jon saw no point in pretending.

The knight, now realizing that he had no foundation to stand on with so few allies at hand, seemed to shrivel in his armour. "I…I…"

"Do you understand me," Jon raised his voice enough for it to be heard clearly across the cave. "Ser Narbert?"

Red in the face, the knight slowly lowered his gaze towards the cave floor. "Yes."

"Yes…?" Jon stepped closer.

"Yes…Lord Snow."

The Stranger nodded in approval as Jon gathered up those within the cave who he did not feel would need constant supervision and left Ser Narbert with his handful of Stormlanders. The company of fifty-six men and one direwolf trucked up through the trails scouted by Jon before, with warning not to disturb the unicorns passed along well in advance of this passage.

"I don't imagine that this Lord Magnar will wish to part with Lord Rickon if he's been raised to such a station." Ser Davos, the only Stormlander who Jon did not object to bringing along, speculated. "And you've said it yourself, these Skagosi don't view your house as fondly as most northerners do."

"Starks in the past have brought them to heel through force of arms and respect commanded by strength." Jon replied, slowing down when he saw that some of the men were becoming winded to keep up with the swift pace he had set in a moment of forgetfulness. "I won't be the one to ask him to return Rickon, Ser Davos. That task I leave to you."

"To me?" Davos blurted.

"You managed to convince your king to abandon the theatre of war in the south and come to our aid." Jon reminded him. "Tell me how many others in this company could have done the same."

Davos opened his mouth and looked over his shoulder before turning back to Jon with a defeated look. "And if I can't?"

"Then it falls to me to bring them to heel." Jon answered. "But I'd rather we accomplish this without needless violence."

"I'll do my best, and that's all that I can promise." Davos sighed.

"That is all that I can ask." Jon cracked a smile and patted the older man on the shoulder before trekking onward.

It took them the better part of the day to reach the territory of the Magnars. Along the way they found villages, small hamlets built within range of the rare and coveted acres suitable for farming and constructed around a Weirwood that would serve as each settlement's heart. In each one there was no sign of life, but evidence of very recent habitation in the form of hastily dropped tools, meals that had not been taken by rot and vermin and in the last village before Kingshouse even signs that someone had accidentally kicked a cooking fire and set a hut on fire.

Seeing the danger of the flames spreading, Jon reached to his belt and pulled the Fist of the First Men free.

"Snow?" Tormund called as Jon broke away from the column and approached the blaze.

Coming to a stop at the edge of the pyre, Jon raised the Fist high overhead and closed his eyes, remembering how he had buried the Builder's tomb in a fresh layer of ice and rock. He had not created this new covering, but had rather…repurposed the materials around it to take a new shape. What he intended required something more strenuous, as told by the Stranger during the short voyage.

 _Ice!_

Jon brought the Fist down with a yell. From the point of impact erupted a gust of air which carried with it a chill so intense that the flames were snuffed out and a layer of frost spread over the blackened timbers and surrounding ground. He heard one of the men behind him utter an oath as he slung the Fist back onto his belt and turned away from the wreck.

"Fuck me." Tormund rasped, gaping at the sight. "Why'd I ever think you'd stop surprisin' me, Snow?"

"Keep following me," Jon said with an air of amusement, "maybe the time will come before our work is done."

"Sure hope not." Tormund shook his head and trudged along after him, waving one arm to get the men moving. "When you do things like this, it puts my people a little further away from the wrong end of a knife."

The mystery of where the smallfolk had gone was quickly answered minutes later when they came to Kingshouse. The first sign that they'd reached their destination was the presence of watch towers with grim faced archers, faces painted white and green and glowering as stonily as their names suggested at the procession of Free Folk and Northmen. Yet they made no move to attack or even turn them away, content to watch their every move as they made the climb towards an outer wall made of wood, built high and strong like Hardhome's, only more developed with space for Magnar warriors to crowd along its top and in guard posts that would allow a few dozen dedicated archers to turn the approach into a blood bath for any army with aid from the incline. Beyond this wall Jon spied signs of roof tops, wooden structures with signs of wear and hasty repair.

As they came upon the gates of the town, Ser Davos waited for a prompt from Jon before stepping forward. "In the name of Stannis Baratheon, first of his name, I bring greetings to the people of Kingshouse!" He called up and was met with silence. "…we have travelled far to seek an audience with the Lord of House Magnar!"

Low, wry laughter rippled among the ranks of the Magnars.

"Wildling fuckers!" One man jeered.

"Go back to your soft soil!"

"Our lord will suffer no friend of the Thenns!"

Weapons were waved overhead, making Davos tense and prepare to move for cover before Jon stepped forward with Ghost at his side. The sight of the massive albino direwolf brought immediate silence to the Magnars, many of them gazing wide eyed in reverence as they murmured among themselves.

"My name is Jon Snow." Jon declared. "And your lord _will_ suffer me. Tell him a son of Ned Stark will have words with him either now as equals, or tomorrow as enemies."

A tense silence followed, leaving Davos squirming in place next to Jon as Tormund moved to stand with them.

"Well, at least they aren't filling us with arrows." Davos whispered. "Is your plan to threaten him? Pray, warn us in advance that we might be at a safer distance when this plan goes into action."

"I won't do anything to put you all in danger, Ser Davos." Jon promised. "But with the Skagosi, a measure of force or threat of force is needed." He paraphrased the Stranger's words as the spectral man fed them to him. "Too little and they will think you weak, too much and they will take offence."

"Sounds about right." Tormund nodded, noting the presence of a few women among the Skagosi. "That's new."

"What?" Jon asked.

"Magnars might've been Free Folk once but they got too southron to let their women fight." Tormund explained. "Now I see them, armed and armoured like the old stories."

"If they've been isolated from the mainland long enough then anything could happen to make them reconsider that stance." Davos proposed. "Perhaps there are too few men to balance everything, like on Bear Island."

A harsh cackle from the top of the walls answered him. "Our women-folk were never the soft flowers you mainlanders let your girls become."

From the mass of stoneborn emerged a man who, much like the Greatjon, looked like he could have legitimately possessed a giant in his ancestral tree. The sides of his scalp were shaven while the top was grown out and pulled back into a mess of dark braids that reached down past his shoulders. From one ear hung a large curved fang fashioned into an earring. His outer garb was a mixture of boiled leathers and fragments of the peculiar stone armour favoured on this island, with a green lobster emblazoned across his chest.

"But we'd never put them close enough for some fucking Wildling to steal away." The man spat, pale blue eyes locked onto Tormund. "Seems their women have failed them so bad they've gotten desperate enough to come right to my door now."

Tormund's nostrils flared and his hands balled up around the handle of his sword before Jon raised one hand.

"The Free Folk are here as part of my company." He said. "Be you the Lord of House Magnar?"

"Aye, I'm the fuckin' lord." The man held his arms out to his sides. "Baldric Magnar, Lord of Kingshouse and Defender of the Bay of Seals." He made an exaggerated flourish. "At your service, Jon Snow, son of Eddard. Glad to meet one of Stark blood after so many years."

"But you already have." Jon put an end to the pitiful attempt at diverting the discussion. "A boy came to your island, with a woman and a direwolf with dark fur. You had him kill a unicorn on a hunt weeks ago."

Baldric's smile fell. "No boy with the Stark colours walks among us."

"But a boy with red hair and a black direwolf does." Jon insisted. "He is Rickon of House Stark, son of Eddard and Catelyn…and my half-brother. I've come to take him home."

"Is that right?" Baldric leaned on the wooden rail. "A bastard son of a mainlander lord and some mainlander whore dares to command me?"

"A bastard son of your liegelord dares to command you." Jon challenged. "And if naming me a bastard is your idea of clever, I imagine I could find more than a few names for you as this drags on."

"Skagos knows no liegelord save for one of our choosing!" Baldric snarled. "We've obeyed the words of men far from here long enough. We've bled for you mainlanders in your wars, we've bled at the Wildlings' hands and now you approach with them at your back and seeking to command me in my own home."

He was seeking to escalate the situation, that much was clear.

"Skagos will be bled dry if it stands alone." Jon said. "Winter is coming, and it brings a new Long Night with it. Your raiding parties must have seen what befell the Free Folk by now, they must have seen the dark things that walk under the sun beyond the Wall."

Baldric spat as close to Jon's feet as he could manage. "Unless the dead can swim or sail, or the Wall itself crumbles I will hold no fear of your monsters and tales."

Davos cleared his throat. "My Lord Magnar, the boy you have is hunted by enemies of House Stark. The Boltons will find out he is here as surely as we did, only they will come seeking his death and that of your people. We stand before you now with an offer from King Stannis, one that may greatly benefit you. You already know that the dead walk, then you know why the Free Folk had to be saved and brought south. You should also know that the dead will turn on the Wall in full force without anymore meat to add to their ranks, and you can't assume that they won't find a way to cross water, be it today or a year from now. While they march as one, the rest of the kingdoms lay in tatters with usurpers and traitors who spit upon your gods in power."

"From what I hear, this Stannis' god is no friend to those of me 'n mine either." Baldric grunted.

"His Grace respects and protects the rights of every man, woman and child to worship whatever gods they see fit." Davos defended. "He comes not with armies and fire to enslave you, but to defend all who call the Others or the White Walkers or whatever they're called foe. If you were to aid him in that he would see you greatly rewarded."

"The word of a southron king spoken through a southron puppet." Baldric crossed his arms.

Jon noticed Davos' jaw clench before the man cursed and ripped off his glove, exposing his mutilated digits to the Skagosi. "See this? That's his word. Long ago I was but a smuggler, a pirate, looked down on just as others look down on you, denouncing you as savages. Then one day I saved Stannis and his home from starvation and in turn he made me an offer: knighthood, a holdfast with wealth and learning for my children the likes of which I'd never known as a child!"

He waved the hand before them. "Look at it closely, Lord Magnar, for this is the price he demanded. One good act did not wash out a bad one, nor a bad act a good one, he said. All I need pay was the loss of my fingers for what he promised, and gods damn it he did not lie! He took them off with his own dagger and then gave me and my family everything and more! He named me his Hand, heeded my council to sail to the Wall's defence and even now seeks to punish those who would spit upon the sacred guest rite and murder their sworn king! When Stannis Baratheon makes a promise it is not just words, he rewards those who serve him well. Help him put the North to rights and he would see you made rich and powerful unlike ever before!"

The man was left catching his breath by the end of his speech. Most of the Skagosi appeared intrigued by how proudly he bore the mutilation, Lord Baldric among them.

"…Snow may enter." The Lord of Kingshouse decided. "So may you and the Giantsbane, but the rest stay." He turned and barked. "Bread and salt! If I'm to talk with Andals, wildlings and a Stark bastard I'll do so the old way."

Stepping away from the edge of the wall, Baldric Magnar called out before he vanished from sight. "Unlike those flayer cunts, we know not to tempt the gods' wrath."

Xxx

Kingshouse was…much bigger than Jon had imagined. The castle itself was built into a hill and was located mostly under layer of earth and rock with a grand hall at the top of the summit. Leading up to it from the outer wall was either a large town or a small city, larger than any settlement he'd expect to find on Skagos.

Kingston housed no less than ten thousand based on its size and not at all what Jon imagined whenever he'd been told of the brutal and savage Skagosi raiders who clashed with and even managed to kill a Stark king once upon a time. Structures were built to accommodate multiple families, particularly during harsh winters, and the sloped nature of the town had allowed for a network of tunnels to be dug beneath it over centuries' passing until the Skagosi could reliably traverse from Kingshouse all the way down to Kingston's front gates through tunnels big enough for two men and expertly propped up and supported.

Here, Jon was hit with a moment of nostalgia as he watched children play in the streets and the occasional minstrel entertain the people, belting out songs of heroic deeds from long ago by legendary figures. Many stopped to stare at Ghost, who had been permitted with a surprising lack of resistance from Baldric Magnar, as the direwolf padded along silently next to Jon. A formation of twenty stoneborn surrounded him, Tormund and Davos as they were led to the mead hall atop the summit.

"The boy you seek is on this island." Baldric revealed as they came to a set of heavy doors. "But he is not under my roof."

He pushed the doors inward to reveal a hall that looked like it had the hull of a longship for a ceiling. The center of the floor was dominated by a roaring flame upon which a large pot's contents were boiled and the rich odour of fish being prepared drifted through the air. Two long tables sat along the length of the room, one on each side of the flames while a high table was set at one end on a raised section of floor.

Its atmosphere was…surprisingly similar to the great hall of Winterfell during its more lively days. Jon felt his eyes water as they drifted over simplistic paintings of heroic tales drawn on the walls, finding himself missing home more now than he had in the last several years.

Baldric beckoned them in. "He goes where he wills, him and his caretaker." He dropped into his seat at the high table and set the large axe carried on his back off to one side. "The Crowls found them first, tried to take the wolf for themselves and lost a dozen men for their troubles. The Stanes tried next and that woman put a spear through the throat of their fool lord. Some of my men came upon them when some Wildlings washed up in boats held together by dung and prayer. They saw a woman and her son out in the woods and did what you'd expect Wildlings to do, so my men intervened and that got us into their good graces."

"Why take Rickon to hunt a unicorn after?" Jon asked. "You don't let just anyone hunt them."

"Aye, we don't." Baldric nodded. "Didn't realize just who the boy was until he wailed for his wolf and it came running. I saw his eyes turn that blasted milky white of a warg, saw the same in his wolf. That's when I knew I had to make me and mine indispensable for this boy and his protector. After that hunt the Stanes and the Crowls started paying a little more heed to me when I spoke, started falling in line when they realized I had the favour of an honest to gods warg with a direwolf, a symbol fit only for kings as far as anyone around here cares."

"I thought you hate the Starks." Davos said. "At least from your general attitude towards all mainlanders."

"I've little love for any who claim to rule me from afar, but we respect strength and the Starks never failed to remind us who was the strongest." Baldric grimaced and brushed one hand through his short, tangled beard. "Used to be a house called Skagstark, a Stark branch founded to try and keep us from rebelling again. A long time ago the flayers rebelled, the Starks called for aid and my ancestors and the Stanes and the Crowls answered…but the Skagstarks pledged themselves to new masters."

"If this was during the last Bolton uprising…this could mean that they and House Greystark sided with the Boltons at the same time." Jon realized. "Why haven't I ever heard of the Skagstarks?"

"Hard to hear much about a minor house of traitors after they're long dead." Baldric chuckled, accepting a goblet as servants raced through, passing out drinks to his guests and setting out bread and salt on the nearest table. "The Starks showed no mercy to them. Distant kin or not, they lost their heads or had to take the Black. Only the flayers were spared. It was a good reminder that a Stark's favour isn't something to be tossed aside lightly."

By now Tormund and Davos had seated themselves and begun to partake of the offered food. Jon accepted a handful of bread and a pinch of salt to complete for formality.

"So you helped Rickon to find and kill a unicorn to raise his own status…and your own by association." Jon summarized Baldric's tale. "Between that, his direwolf and warg abilities he must be the king of Skagos in all but name."

"Would've been in name if that Osha wasn't as sharp of wit as the edge of her knife." Baldric rubbed one hand over the other with a grimace. "But your Rickon keeps the peace just by being here now. If you want me to help you take away the one thing keeping the Crowls and the Stanes from starting up another foolish fight over fuck all between our fathers and their fathers then I need something from you first."

"Name it and I'll make sure you have it." Jon said without hesitation.

His swiftness to accept left Baldric off guard. "I…uh…was going to tell you first, but…"

"Just tell him." Tormund said through half a mouthful of bread. "He won't stop 'til you do."

"Giantsbane, the only reason that I'm not going to rip out your tongue for talking under my roof is because you've managed to endear yourself to me with what you did to Volgran Crowl all those years ago." Baldric scowled. "But keep your mouth shut unless spoken to or it'll be _you_ who gets shipped home with a ring of cocks around your neck."

Tormund snorted in amusement and went back to his drink and food.

Baldric sank into his chair with a heavy sigh. "We've had…a bit of a problem threatening our ships that stray too close to the Isle of Skane. Occasionally that problem comes to our shores and my people suffer and burn for it, as do our neighbours. My men on the mainland tell me that you're a man who works miracles, Jon Snow: rising from the dead, getting thousands of wildlings past the Wall when they'd been beyond help, finding some magic relic of the Night's Watch that's cost me at least two of my spies…"

Pressing his thick arms down against the chair's arm rests, Baldric leaned forward and stared intently down at Jon. "You want your brother back and the loyalty of the stoneborn? Then you need to perform another miracle."

Every time someone spoke of Jon and miracles they made it sound like he was one of the blasted seven reincarnate. Jon knew that he could easily track Rickon down if given enough time, but the chance of gaining Stannis and the Night's Watch the aid of the Skagosi was something that he couldn't pass up. They may not field armies in the tens of thousands or possess fleets of hundreds, but the Skagosi had not suffered any losses directly to the war in the south and acknowledged the threat from the north. Their help would be invaluable in the wars to come.

"What would you demand of me?" Jon asked.

Baldric clenched his teeth in a grin, revealing a few gaps and others grossly misaligned. "I need you to kill a monster that's been terrorizing us since before our fathers' fathers were born, Jon Snow." He said. "Kill it, and bring me its head."

Xxx

End of Chapter


	12. Chapter Eleven: The Calm

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Eleven: The Calm**

 **Winterfell**

 _Don't resist. Don't meet his eye. Don't scream._

Sansa Stark, now known to the realm as Sansa Bolton by marriage, had come to rehearse one mantra or another in every blessed moment of privacy afforded to her. First in the Red Keep where she had learned to sing the tune of a caged bird, next in the Eerie where she had acted the role of Jeyne Stone, the bastard of Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish. Now she was back home and felt further than it from ever, neither singing or acting but simply…existing.

Winterfell had been destroyed, allegedly by the Ironborn occupiers before the Boltons eradicated their presence, and then rebuilt to almost perfectly resemble the original structure. To any who had only seen it in passing or been there on occasion there would be little difference, but as far as Sansa saw it she was in a completely different castle.

This was not home. Home was safe and warm. Home was where mother and father ruled, powerful but compassionate, loved by the smallfolk and respected by bannermen.

Home was where Robb, handsome and gallant Robb, worked towards the day that he would become the next Lord. There he would spar in the yard with handsome but arrogant Theon, silent and sullen Jon and dozens of others who were nothing more than faceless ghosts drifting at the edge of her memories.

Home was where wild little Arya would run away from lessons with Septa Mordane. She rode, learned to wield a sword and did everything that a lady shouldn't.

 _I wish I'd been wild like you, little sister._

Home was where Theon, handsome but arrogant Theon, laughed and boasted and mocked. He was everything befitting a Prince in the making, albeit a Prince of pirates and raiders brought low, but he would never let that detract from his pride in his people even as he became a Stark in all but name.

Home was where Jon, sullen and silent Jon who her mother told her was a stain on the entire family and a threat to their inheritance, would pretend to lose to Robb when their mother was watching. Where he would help Arya indulge her wild tendencies and play with Bran. Where stupid and naïve Sansa would ignore him at best and belittle him in private when he was not present, sharing in snide little whispers with Jeyne Pool and Beth Cassel.

Were it possible, stupid and naïve Sansa would be punished for every moment that she took for granted when this place was home. Every moment that she spent dreaming of getting as far away from it as possible to try and live out the fairy tales she believed in. Every moment that she spurned wild little Arya for wishing to follow her own path in life.

But then…was the hell that she now lived in not her punishment for being so eager to turn her back on her true family?

Night in and night out, Ramsay would return and she would remain still and silent as he forced himself upon her. She'd learned not to scream or cry early on, thanks to Theon…no longer handsome or arrogant, now just ugly little Reek. He'd warned her of what not to do, of how to avoid awakening the beast that lay behind the twisted smile of her husband. Sometimes he would make her walk with him as Reek trailed behind them. Myranda would be with them also, the kennelmaster's daughter just as cruel and sadistic and only held in check by Ramsay from doing anything to her newest perceived enemy.

On these walks, she would see the cruelties which tainted Winterfell by the whims of its new masters. Men, women and children suspected of loyalty towards Stannis or to a particular house which failed to show loyalty to House Bolton were whipped, beaten or endured the breaking or outright loss of entire extremities as Ramsay sorted out those who would confess from those who would die pleading innocence. With no House Stark in the North to curb his tendencies, Ramsay Bolton relished in his newfound power over so many.

They were all his to torment, just like her.

When the screams stopped one morning, she didn't know what to make of it. The hounds had not been let out to feast on the dead, else their barking would have filled the silence. Instead, save for the occasional whinnying of horses and calls of men, her chambers were quiet for the first time in recent memory.

Then the door swung open.

"Good morning, wife!" Ramsay Bolton proclaimed as he stepped through, arms spread and a grin splitting his pale face. "Your husband has come to bring you most wonderful news."

Seated by the hearth, Sansa slowly lifted her head from the charred black kindling and murmured. "Welcome, my lord-husband." She said, reciting what he liked to hear. "Have you need of me?"

"Oh come now, wife, if I were here for that I'd have said so." He held out a hand which she took, allowing him to guide her to her feet so she could walk arm-in-arm with him past where Reek cowered in the corner next to the door. "Come Reek."

They walked the battlements that overlooked Winter Town. The buildings were no longer entirely abandoned as farmers and their families now migrated with their food parcels, preparing for the coming of a true winter, the first in over a decade. She could see that several hundred souls already milled about, even children who smiled and laughed as a small troupe of performers put on a play for their amusement.

"Have you heard about your brothers?" Ramsay asked, having said nothing since they left Sansa's chambers.

"My traitor brothers are dead, as all traitors should be, my lord-husband." Sansa didn't allow her eyes to linger on the troupe, lest her husband think it was distracting her from his company and take steps to have it removed permanently.

"Ah, so we all thought, didn't we?" Ramsay nodded and looked over his shoulder. "So Reek told us. Didn't you, Reek? At least…that's what you told us at first."

Reek nodded, eyes kept towards the stone beneath his mutilated feet.

"Yes, you did." Ramsay pointed down into the court yard. "Killed, tarred and burned two farmer's boys and hung them there, he did. Said they were Brandon and Rickon Stark, but after some time with me he sang the truth: he never found your brothers. But I, your beloved noble husband, have managed to partly correct that, all for you my love."

Sansa's throat locked up as she tried to control her reaction to this news.

 _Bran and Rickon live. My little brothers live!_

"Little Rickon's been found." Ramsay said. "And your bastard-brother is on his way to find him as we speak."

 _Jon! No, no, no. Why aren't you staying at the Wall?! Stay with the Watch where he can't touch you!_

"How can that be, beloved?" Sansa managed to find her voice after several moments, still keeping her gaze locked forward and blinking away any tears under the cover of her cowl. "My bastard half-brother is sworn to the Night's Watch until the end of his days."

"Not if you believe all the juicy rumours that I've heard." Ramsay shook his head. "The Gravewalker. The wolf who rose from the dead after being stabbed in the heart by his own men. A wielder of sorcerous abilities at the head of an army of Wildling marauders. One pales to imagine what he'd do if he got his hands on your baby brother, wife."

There was no way to tell if Ramsay was simply conjuring tales out of thin air or truly passing on rumours from up north. There was always supposed to be a way to tell if he was playing with her heart, a tell that gave away his intentions which was absent in spite of the unbelievable things he said.

"We never spoke much of your bastard-brother, did we?" Ramsay asked. "Reek there had things to say about him, but what of you?"

This was his motive. He was concerned about Jon, be it because of the rumours or simply because he was the only known son of Ned Stark to still live. He wanted to know more of him, should Jon become a threat to the Boltons…unless he already had.

"I never spoke much with Jon Snow, my lord-husband." Sansa spoke truthfully. "My mother insisted that I avoid him when possible. I only spoke to him on occasion as we got older, and only when occasion demanded it."

Ramsay's smile faltered a little, his eyes turning northward to a pale horizon of cloud meeting snow. "Is that so? You must know something about him, even second-hand. You lived in the same castle all your life."

"I only know that my traitor father brought him here at the end of Robert's Rebellion." She answered, relieved for once that stupid and naïve Sansa's attitude had led to at least one good thing. "He refused to speak of his mother, or consider fostering him to another noble house."

"Peculiar, that bit." Ramsay noted, releasing her arm to lean on the battlements. "Not all of us are so lucky, we baseborn. My father took me in and acknowledged me, but only after his trueborn son died by…a sudden and unfortunate sickness." She could almost hear the grin that grew at those last few words. "But yours? The honourable Ned Stark brings a bastard into his home, raises him alongside his children and never once thinks of doing anything that most Lords would do in his place. That was once the talk of the North, according to all the greybeards and crones."

He shrugged. "Well, I suppose he might be able to tell us that himself."

Sansa's heart almost leapt into her throat. "He is coming here?" The question leapt out before she could stop it.

Ramsay turned, looking content with the crack that he'd made in her façade. "One way or another. But never fear, wife…" He backed her against the inner palisade and kissed her brow. "Jon Snow might be a man of secrets, but flayed men hold no secrets."

 _Jon, don't come here!_ Sansa pleaded silently as Ramsay Bolton's hands began to into the layers of her robes. _Run! Run as far as you can!_

But before he could go too far, Ramsay suddenly withdrew as someone called out for him. "Lord Ramsay!"

Face twisting into a snarl, Ramsay turned to the man at arms who had interrupted them. "What?!"

"A rider from House Whitehill has arrived, my lord." The man bowed his head quickly. "With…a message from Ironrath."

Ramsay shoved the man aside and made his way down to the yard below, leaving Sansa and Reek alone to watch. Men had gathered around two horses, one of them empty as its rider, a pale and sickly looking man, was lifted down from his saddle. The other however still carried a rider…who was bound to it with ropes and was missing its head. The symbol of House Whitehill was clearly emblazoned upon the armour worn by the corpse.

Ramsay pushed his way to the living rider. "What is this?" He demanded. "You have a message? Speak it now!"

The man looked up after being given water by a servant. "…Iron…Ironrath…has fallen." He coughed. "Message for…Torrhen Whitehill from…Rodrik Forrester. Highpoint is mine…come and see."

High above where this happened, Sansa heard laughter coming from a cage dangling out before the ramparts. Weeks ago it had been set up with its lone prisoner, given only a blanket sewn from the flayed skins of the women who had accompanied him and sparse food to keep him alive as long as possible. Now that man, who looked as if he had lost half his body weight, laughed at the misfortune of his captors.

Xxx

 **Ironrath**

Smallfolk flocked back to the ancestral home of House Forrester in droves, once fleeing it in terror as it seemed like their lords were surrounded on all sides by enemies. They gathered within and beyond the gate to cheer as a procession of armoured mounted men approached, bearing the banner of a stag within a flaming heart. They were followed by clansmen of House Wull, fresh from their victory at Highpoint which was now added to the list of Stannis' victories.

"King Stannis!"

"Justice for the Forresters!"

"Stannis Baratheon!"

At the heart of the procession, Stannis Baratheon himself rode with an antlered helm covering his head, welcomed as befit a King into the home of one of his loyal bannermen. Many times he had seen Robert be welcomed with such fanfare, soaking up the adoration of his bannermen and their smallfolk. Stannis himself was not one for such things, but he understood that after suffering as they had the people of these lands needed reason to celebrate and renew their energies for the wars to come.

So he raised one hand in greeting to them as he passed through the restored gate and brought his entourage to a halt short of the Forresters' estate. Servants raced forward eagerly to help knights down and take their horses for them. During this Stannis removed his helmet and gazed up at the ramparts he had passed under to see a head with an eyepatch and long hair blowing in the wind mounted atop a pike overlooking the castle.

"Your Grace." Stannis turned again to find Rodrik Forrester approaching with his wife Elena, sister Talia, Sentinel Royland Degore and Gerold Glenmore at his side and a number of the elite Glenmore archers in marching formation behind them.

"Lord Rodrik." Stannis greeted as the Forrester/Glenmore procession bent the knee before him. "Rise."

Rodrik stood, no longer in need of a cane after months of recuperation in Rillwater Crossing. "Your gift was greatly appreciated." He said. "Ironrath and Highpoint are yours, your Grace, as is our loyalty from this day until your last."

"I've one more gift to grant you, Lord Rodrik. Proof that those who follow their rightful king are always rewarded." Stannis motioned to a group of his most trusted knights as they approached, moving aside to reveal two figures in their midst, one of them a dark skinned foreign woman in leather armour and the other a young boy with features similar to Rodrik's yet not given time to fully develop…

"Ryon!" Talia screamed and raced forward, meeting her brother in an embrace which he returned, both of them collapsing to their knees in tears.

"Beshka." Rodrik recognized the sellsword who had accompanied his brother Asher across the Narrow Sea. "I can't thank you enough for this."

"Weren't for you, Lord Forrester." The heavily scarred woman grunted. "Asher would've wanted his family back together, and your new King paid me handsomely to deliver him back here. We just happened to be on my way here after word of your victory spread and ran into him and his fancy knights."

Of the reasons provided, Rodrik could guess which mattered most to the sellsword in making her decision. "All the same."

"Lord Rodrik," Stannis handed his helmet off to Larence Snow. "We must speak in private."

Rodrik obliged, leaving his reunited family to celebrate and led Stannis along with Hugo Wull, Gerold Glenmore and Captain Syronos Dirrin to his solar. Once they were all seated and provided food and drink, Stannis had a map of the North unrolled across the table dominating the centre of the room, with each Baratheon aligned house and keep marked.

"With the addition of Houses Forrester and Glenmore, as well as the taking of Highpoint and the sharing of the 'gift' from the Night's Watch for the viewing pleasure of the neutral houses," Stannis had pieces representing his armies placed on the map to mark friendly hosts and keeps and distinguishing them from Bolton-held areas, "The northernmost territories are now entirely in our control. Our progress has been slow, but this has given my men more time to clear routes for armies and stockpile food supplies."

"The Flayed Man still won't come out to play." Hugo Wull pointed out, dissatisfied as his eyes fixed upon the heart of the North. "He's an army mustering around Winterfell, from traitors like the Dustins and the Ryswells. Another host gathers at the Dreadfort, including Manderly men and knights."

"I thought the fat lord had promised us support." Syronos Dirrin frowned, feet propped up on the table in a leisurely position, which drew irate glances from Rodrik and Royland.

"Only if we provide Rickon Stark, alive and well." Stannis clarified. "Until his forces engage ours directly, they are to be considered neutral in this conflict."

It would gain him nothing to immediately mark Manderly as an enemy. The man was a rare example of Northman who allowed wealth and excess to get to him, but he was crafty enough to keep from joining one side outright until given a complete guarantee of victory. Such qualities were not something that Stannis sought in his lords, but as long as the fat lord remained confined to his city on the White Knife and provided him arms, men and supplies in the future he would be permitted to continue ruling. Only if he outright aided the Boltons against him would Stannis' patience reach its limit and the Merman Hall be in desperate need of a new lord, sigil and name by the end of the Boltons' rule.

If such came to pass, he had more than enough Northerners and sellswords who would make adequate replacements.

"The reason for this meeting," He continued, "is a concern that I've shared among my commanders. None of them, save Captain Dirrin, have taken it seriously"

To the Northmen, this explained the absence of Stannis' usual retinue of knights, not that they had any objections to this. Hugo Wull had the displeasure of meeting the King's inner circle of zealots and had breathed a sigh of relief upon learning that they were assigned to skirmish duty to satiate their bloodlust and desire for glory on the battlefield.

"Concern, your Grace?" Rodrik raised one brow.

"The campaign is too easy." Syronos Dirrin cut to the chase, lowering his legs from the table and adopting a more upright posture in his seat.

"Easy?" Royland blurted incredulously. "I'll admit we've had the initiative, but that's hardly a bad thing."

"Ironrath, Highpoint and a handful of other keeps have either fallen or bent the knee." Syronos countered. "The most response seen from the Boltons was the ill-fated attempt by Gryff Whitehill to break your siege here, Lord Rodrik. There are now targets within attack range of either Winterfell or the Dreadfort and yet they remain passive."

"They could be saving up for when the weather lifts." Gerold suggested, dragging one finger across the map from Winterfell towards Ironrath. "It might look simple enough to march to any of these spots, but one bad night of heavy snowfall and blistering cold..." He tapped a spot halfway between the two. "And suddenly you're trapped halfway to anywhere with horses and men dropping left and right."

"Or they're scared that my men might do what we did at Highpoint or the Ironborn did at Winterfell," Hugo Wull belched and dragged one sleeve across his ale soaked beard, "wait until the army marches off, scale the walls, kill off the sods they leave behind and trap the rest out in the cold."

"Or for us to overextend our lines." Ser Royland added, seeming to consider Syronos' words. "It's like you said, your Grace, progress has been slow but it's also kept your forces expanding southward at a steady, sustainable rate. Other commanders have made the mistake of getting overconfident from a few early victories and charging forward only to fall into a trap."

Stannis nodded, familiar with more than a few historical campaigns that had ended as such. In one such lesson he'd learned of how an army of barely twelve thousand had managed to defeat almost five times their number during the Century of Blood. The leader of an army made up of both the Free Cities and Kingdom of the Storm opposing Volantis had outmanoeuvred his adversaries, splitting them up and cutting their smaller armies to pieces while not losing even a quarter of his own host. In the First Dornish War, Targaryen armies were drawn out into the merciless heat away from water and cut to pieces by Dornish skirmishers, or died under the shadow of a number of keeps as their overstretched supply lines back to the Reach or the coast were intercepted.

He stood in enemy lands, fighting enemies who had better understanding of the terrain, the climate and means of surviving both. While his host did include Northmen and soon Free Folk who thrived in the cold, believing that he would win because of his enemy being idle would be the killing blow that ended his campaign.

"Possible." Stannis agreed. "That is why we will hold our course and refuse them a direct confrontation until Jon Snow's expedition returns."

"Snow? I thought he was with your Wi…Free Folk army." Rodrik uttered, familiar with the rumours that had spread of the bastard son of Ned Stark and his supposed rise from death. He'd met him in passing before the War of Five Kings and held no ill will to him, baseborn or not, especially if he had advised Stannis acquire the Mountain Clans' aid, thus leading to Deepwood Motte and Ironrath being liberated. Associating with Wildlings and the tales of his apparent sorcery aside, he'd heard nothing truly bad of the man.

"He has journeyed to Skagos with my Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth." Stannis told them. "They are the ones seeking out Rickon Stark, and if possible the fealty of the Skagosi houses. Should they succeed we will both outnumber and outflank the Boltons and their allies."

Hugo, Gerold, Royland and Rodrik exchanged glances before the Lord of Ironrath spoke up. "Your Grace…many may not feel comfortable fighting alongside Skagosi. Their island home is surrounded in many grim tales, particularly that of their taste for human flesh."

"Bring too many savages to our side and others may be less inclined to pledge for you." Gerold added. "You've six thousand Wildlings preparing to march already. There's all the numerical advantage you need and perhaps all the North will stand for."

"The houses of Skagos are bannermen of the North, are they not?" Stannis fixed the Northmen with a stare that would have made him worthy of being named stoneborn himself. "If it is savages to heed my call and support my claim in the greatest numbers, then so be it."

Syronos Dirrin cleared his throat. "I think we are drifting from the original point. The Boltons are, if what I've read of them is correct, not prone to defensive warfare. If they are holding back even now, there must be a reason, which we would be remiss to not seek."

Stannis slowly sank back into his seat and nodded. "Yes. The matter of the Skagosi may wait. Lord Forrester, Chief Wull and Captain Dirrin: I charge the three of you with the task of scouting Bolton held lands to ascertain their plans. You may employ any resources at your disposal as well as that of any others sworn to my banner, so long as our position is not compromised by their absence. And you are not to engage the Bolton hosts. Discover what Roose Bolton has planned so that when my armies march again we are not caught off guard."

A chorus of 'yes, your Grace' rang through the solar.

"Then with that, I return to Deepwood Motte." Stannis rose to his feet, leading to chairs scraping back as the others around the table quickly rose with him. "Dismissed."

Xxx

 **Bay of Seals**

"I thought you said that Skagosi lack a real navy." Jon had hissed to Ser Davos as they were shown to a fair sized vessel, one of a number stashed in a hidden cave harbour within Magnar controlled lands.

"I thought for sure they did." Davos had defended. "They've never sent out anything bigger than longships good for raiding, or shown any sign of being capable of what we've seen."

"We all thought the same, Snow." Tormund defended the older man. "But it seems these stoneborn are better at hiding things than we thought."

The vessel, named the _Sea Dragon_ , departed from Skagos with the three aboard. While the quality of the ship was nothing compared to that found in the south or across the Narrow Sea, it was several steps up from what the Free Folk were capable of lashing together. More akin to a hulk in size and design, the ship would have perhaps been realizable enough for voyages up and down the coast or across the narrow sea.

Baldric Magnar had been pleased at their astonishment once he joined them on the deck.

Partway through their voyage, he had invited them to his cabin.

"Your people have many surprises, Lord Magnar." Ser Davos said. "For the longest time we in the south had laboured under the delusion that your people lacked the knowledge and resources for a ship of this size."

Baldric's row of yellowed, uneven teeth were bared in a grin as he held his arms out to his sides, one hand holding a sealed bottle and the other a set of cups pinned together by his fingers. "What's the best way to keep everyone 'n their cunt grandmums from botherin' you, Lord Seaworth?"

Davos looked to Tormund for help, but the fire kissed man was equally perplexed.

"Make 'em think you've got nothin' they want and everythin' they don't." Baldric set down mugs for them. "Make 'em think we're a bunch'a godless savages who eat our dead, sacrifice babes to the moon and turn into creatures of the night who fuck and eat each other. Let their imagination build a few more nice'n horrid tales to keep them away. We stoneborn love our privacy, Lord Seaworth, so we're content to let the rest of the world think there's nothin' on Skagos that would make them think about visitin'."

"So the cannibalism stories are false?" Jon asked.

"Hint'o truth in every lie, Lord Snow." Baldric filled each cup and held his up in a toast before pouring it down his throat. "We used to have a tribe that did that, way back before those dragonlords came and built their throne. They'd eat their dead because nobody else would trade with 'em and we burnt their whole fuckin' fishin' fleet after one of their lords' sons went and raped a great grand mum o' mine. Bunch'a arrogant fucks who thought havin' some of that Valyrian steel made 'em kings of our shitty piece o' rock."

"So your ancestors perpetuated the claim that all of you practice eating the flesh of man." Davos realized. "That must have harmed any trade deals you had."

"Sure did, but we border the Shiverin' Sea!" Baldric nodded. "Plenty o' fish to find in there, more than we could ever harvest. Some too big for us to harvest, others too foul tempered. Unlike the mainland, we don't need to sew crops until winter comes. Unlike those Ironcunts, we don't need to raid for everything we need."

"But your people have raided before." Jon pointed out.

"On occasion." Baldric nodded. "Sometimes we'd get a lord or a few at a time who thought 'what if I could have more' and get ideas of raidin' and conquerin' the mainland. One even killed a Stark King, not that it really mattered in the end when his head rolled. They paid for their ambition, and their successors learned not to be so fuckin' daft." He looked to Tormund and added. "Course, raidin' Beyond the Wall is always encouraged. What with you wildlings fightin' each other as much as us we knew we could make some easy grabs and not worry about an army knockin' on our doors."

"Hah!" Tormund scoffed. "Easy, eh? That's what you call a cock necklace, then?"

"I do when all the cocks belong to fuckin' Crowls!" Baldric bellowed and laughed, which Tormund joined in on while Jon and Davos stewed in uncomfortable silence.

"But that brings me to the one question gnawing at my mind, Lord Magnar." Davos said after the pair settled down. "How did your people manage to build all that they have if they stayed so isolated?"

Baldric poured himself a second round. "I only ever said we scared you mainlanders away from our shores, Lord Seaworth." He shook his head. "Never said we didn't leave from time to time to learn a few things. Your Citadel practically takes anyone, long as they don't look like a man-eatin' savage. We always send a Magnar lad over there every three or four generations to learn what's new, sometimes we even send someone elsewhere to see what's to be found. And any knowledge they brought back is shared so all our folk can learn it."

If the Magnars had been bringing in knowledge from the outside world to keep self sufficient, then the construction of Kingston and the hidden navy was at least plausible. With the island itself surrounded by a shroud of fear and lacking anything that would encourage conquerors outside of the Faith back in its more militant days to approach, the Skagosi could live independent of Westeros in all but name and still benefit from it.

Forging steel, building ships and structures far beyond what people would expect of them, learning medicinal techniques and remedies known only by the Maesters…with everybody benefitting from it instead of only those in rule. It sounded like a concept that would have come from the Free Folk, and judging by how Tormund's eyes lit up a bit at the last part the former raider agreed with the idea.

"And here we thought you stone men were a bunch'a southron dandies!" He clapped Baldric on the back. "You fuckers had us all fooled!"

"That's the point, Giantsbane!" The two bashed their mugs together.

Jon leaned over towards Davos and whispered as Skagosi and Free Folk engaged in an energized discussion regarding how many Cave People they'd respectively managed to kill. "Did these two just become friends?"

"So it seems." Davos nodded, now grateful for having not taken more than a sip of his ale up to this point. "The North is full of more surprises than I thought. I just hope this is the extent of it."

Xxx

The Isle of Skane was far smaller than Skagos. Where the latter was at least easily visible on any map of the Seven Kingdoms, the former could sometimes be confused for a plop of ink depending on the skill of the mapmaker. Its stony shores led up to a terrain of wind swept grass hills and some small collections of trees that were visible through spy glass at a distance.

"Islands like this shouldn't be inhabited long." Davos said as Jon lowered the spy glass. "I once heard of an island out east where all the trees were cut down, meanin' the folk couldn't make ships. And when the food eventually ran out, they all died off to the last."

"One of the worse ways to go" Tormund agreed.

Jon looked to Baldric, whose men were preparing a long boat. "Is the Feast of Skane a true story? In some form at least?"

It was said that the Skagosi had taken a mighty war fleet to Skane and annihilated every last man and boy, raping the women and taking them and the girls for themselves. This was a story that was taken with a grain of salt by sounder minds, given that the source was from a Maester who had never actually been to Skane, much less the north. The further away from Skagos one got, the more outlandish and depraved the stories became, and Old Town was as far from Skagos as one could get on Westeros.

"In some form." Baldric nodded, slowly heading aft towards them. "Only it wasn't a raid that emptied this island. Every Magnar before me was told that the Feast was just another story we fed the mainland."

"Then what really emptied this island of people?" Ser Davos asked.

Baldric stared warily at the distant shore. "A cry for help." He said. "We emptied this island, that much is true. Eight centuries ago, they sent word to us, begging for aid. Take us from here, they said. Take us from this island of death, as many as you can. Our men are few and fighting to hold back a monster unlike any other. Take our women, take our children. In the name of the gods of the forest we beg this mercy."

He leaned on the railing, gazing down at the churning sea water below. "The Crowls denied them. The Stanes denied them. We brought our ships, what few we had and took as many as we could. Women and children, all of them. Their men were nowhere to be seen, their elders were put to death out of mercy. I've Skane blood in me because of this, same with most who follow the Magnars today."

"Then what is this fucking thing?" Tormund asked bluntly. "What's it look like?"

Baldric shook his head. "It only comes at night. Only ever at night, bringing fire and an ungodly darkness so great you can't see your own hand in front of your face. Entire villages are burned to ash, creatures too big for us to hunt are lifted out of the sea and flung into the high forests while trees hundreds of years old are flung into the sea. Sometimes it doesn't hunt on our land for years, other times it comes every month."

Everything that he said sounded suspiciously like a dragon out of the old tales, but if word from the east was correct the only three to live today were too small and young to have done what Baldric described.

"And any brave fools who try to stay in the open to see it…if they ever saw it at all, they never lived to speak of it." Baldric reached under the folds of his clothes and presented a knotted spiral of Weirwood hanging around his neck. "This was part of the Heartree that my Skane ancestors worshipped. The only piece they managed to save in their flight. Every Magnar has held onto it since then, to remember what has been lost and to eventually return this to where it belongs."

He tore the string holding it away and offered the Weirwood talisman to him. "Take it, Snow…and may the old gods watch over you through it."

Jon took hold of the talisman, turning it over to find that one side had a face carved into the pale bark. The Bright Stranger chose this moment to appear, peering at the talisman and holding one open hand over the face as whispers escaped from the carved visage.

"There is power found in this talisman, an old power that may serve us well." He told Jon, fading away like a wisp of smoke scattered by wind. "Take it."

Jon nodded, both to his spectral passenger and to the Lord of Magnar. "Thank you, Lord Baldric." He retied it around his neck and tucked it under his armour and tunic. "Is there anything you can tell me of where this beast may make its nest?"

"None, but I do know that the settlement from which my Skane ancestors were rescued was located only a few short leagues inland from here." Baldric pointed to the shore. "What's left of the harbour fell away over time, but the original settlement of Greencrown was carved into rock and may have survived in some form. Even if it isn't prowling around there, you might find it useful shelter against the elements."

"We'll try there first." Jon decided, climbing into the long boat with Tormund, Davos and several others.

"My men will help you to shore and no further," Baldric informed them. "We'll stay close by and keep watch for you. If we see nothing of you for three days..."

"I understand." Jon assured the Lord of Kinghouse, who had shed his air of confidence the closer they had gotten to what must have been the source of many a frightening tale for Skagosi children. "Davos, Tormund, you don't need to go with me for this if you don't wish to."

"Ah, don't you start." Tormund scowled. "Faced the dead with you, what's some fire monster to that?"

Jon suspected he might be surprised.

"Much appreciated, Lord Snow, but if anything were to happen to you and I made it back to the mainland I suspect Giantsbane's people wouldn't take too kindly to hearing I ran the other way." Ser Davos sighed. "That aside, if there really is some monster prowling on the edge of our king's realm, I'm honour bound to at least verify its existence and report it back to Stannis. The only way I can do that is if I see the fucking thing for myself and hopefully _not_ die. Just don't expect me to be a great deal of help."

The candour found in his companions was something that Jon treasured almost as much as their courage, though part of him had been hoping they would take the escape he'd offered them.

With no further delay, the longboat set off from the _Sea Dragon_ and returned in little time with three fewer passengers.

Xxx

End of Chapter


	13. Chapter Twelve: Skane

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Twelve: Skane**

The first hour after they'd landed proved uneventful if not disconcerting. Past the rocky shores of Skane and the slopes leading up into the interior, they found evidence of the civilization that once called this land home. Weathered stone markers with sigils of the First Men engraved upon them, invoking blessings or guidance from the Old Gods dotted the landscape where settlements must have once existed. Burial mounds broke the usually flat and wind swept land, bulging upwards and sometimes going unnoticed until one of the companions stepped over it only to find the mound had stonework arranged in a small doorway near its base.

The further they went, the more they found of what used to be dwellings great and small. Villages, small forts…all of them now reduced to little more than their foundations and some crumbling walls while nature slowly returned the land to its original shape, eating away at the creations of the First Men until the day came that all evidence of life on Skane was swept off the face of the world.

"These lands were once teeming with life." The Bright Stranger walked with Jon, taking the opportunity when Tormund and Davos had wandered off far enough for them to have a private discussion. "The bounty of the Shivering Sea and trade with Skagos or the North for precious lumber guaranteed that the Skane could live independent of outside influence even with so little land suited for farming. They were fishermen, voyagers who braved treacherous waters and hunted creatures of the sea that even the Ironborn would shy away from."

"What could have decimated them so badly that they would flee their home?" Jon wondered aloud.

"Fire and darkness are rarely strung together, save for giving form to things far beyond mortal means and once ruled this world in its youth." The Stranger raised a hand to his brow as if fighting off a sudden headache. "Pray this is not one of them."

In the third hour after parting ways with the Skagosi, they found Greencrown just as Baldric had promised. It was a settlement carved into the very rock, with dwellings dug out of pale stone covered by green moss and grass, all arranged in two distinct tiers surrounding a pool of murky, dark water…from which rose the phantom image of a Heartree long ago destroyed.

 _Now I've the means to travel here at will. Good._

Shaving weeks and months off of travel would be of immeasurable convenience to Jon in his mission. So long as there was a Heartree or the site where one had once existed, he could appear there in an instant, traversing hundreds of leagues and saving precious time. If he so wished he could go from here to Castle Black, the Nightfort or the twin Heartrees beyond the Wall and return before his companions took notice of his absence. Such power could be used to affect the outcome of entire wars if used wisely…unless the roots of the Heartree were destroyed.

He had yet to experiment in travelling anywhere else, though the temptation to simply travel to Winterfell, free his sister and unleash his fury upon the Boltons had struck him. Reckless action and a desire to simply do what one saw as right was what had cost House Stark its home and several members of the pack. Even if he was supposedly unable to die, his actions still held consequence and others were not so fortunate.

Furthermore, he had no idea if dying repeatedly overtime might affect him in other unforeseen ways. Rising from death was unnatural, be it as Wight or Gravewalker. Such a state could not come without some form of payment that would be reaped.

Caution was needed for the time being. He could not focus on one war and entirely forget the other.

 _You'll be fighting their wars forever…_

The sudden aching in his skull distracted Jon from Davos' words, promoting the old man to reach out and grip his shoulder. "Snow?"

Jon twisted away from him on reflex before recognizing the sailor. "What is it?"

"You've been staring at that pool for ten minutes." Davos told him. "We've found something you may want to see."

While he had fallen into the maelstrom that was his own thoughts, Davos and Tormund had explored Greencrown and stumbled upon something that made him wish he'd not forced Ghost to scour Skagos for Rickon.

"It's a few days old." Tormund reported after examining the pile of ash and blackened kindling found in one of the outlying northern structures. "Whoever it was, they didn't stay long."

"There was a storm that rolled in from the Shivering Sea a few days ago, just before we set sail for Skagos. Fierce, but it passed by fast." Davos added his own knowledge to the investigation of the small camp site. "They could have sought shelter from the elements in here, just long enough to keep warm and dry until they could travel again."

"Leaving the question of who 'they' are." Jon looked over the remains of the camp fire, taking note of the position of the blackened pieces once used to feed the flames. "They didn't bother to extinguish it themselves. Just let it die on its own."

Tormund returned from a far corner of the room. "Take a look at that." He pointed out a slab which, upon being shifted, revealed a small compartment with several pouches within.

No true valuables were to be found. A few chamber pots, some more kindling, even simple tools carve from bone and rock. What stood out was a pouch containing strips of some plant, a weed with a strong smell, likely for smoking.

"It looks like a supply stash." Davos stayed after looking through the contents. "Everything but food to be found here. I think we're at a waypoint of sorts, on a road regularly travelled but not to such a distance that anyone would need to worry about starving on their way."

Skane was small to begin with, Jon imagined he could walk from one side of it to the other in a few hours if motivated.

"Why these things?" Tormund grimaced at the chamber pots. "Thought that was for your soft lordlings."

"I've a theory." Davos said, examining a set of hooks embedded into the stone above and to either side of the doorway and then pulling from the supply stash a heavy length of fabric possessing holes which fit onto these hooks rather nicely. "You remember what Baldric said about the attacks? Anyone brave or fucked in the head enough to step outside when this beast came around wound up dead rather quick. Maybe the same can be said here."

But for who could it be said? Nobody was supposed to live here.

"This is a shelter for more than weather." Jon agreed, pushing the newly set curtain aside and stepping back out into the cool air. "Let's see if we can find whoever was last here. If there's anyone living on Skane it shouldn't take us long to find them."

He didn't even finish speaking when he felt a warning cry in the back of his head and shifted his body enough that the first arrow buried itself into his bicep instead of his heart. With a pained grunt Jon tore it free and looked to the source, spotting several figures on the outermost edge of Greencrown, the simple rampart of natural rock formation giving them the high ground as they let loose with more arrows.

"Ambush!" He shouted, propelled to one side at speeds that would make Ghost jealous as arrows flew dangerously close. One came so close as to pass within inches of Jon's nose before he dropped and slid feet-first behind a half crumbled wall, joined moments later by Davos.

"Where's Tormund?" Jon whispered before submerging his sight in the mire of the Wraith World, sighting the war chief's silhouette cast in rich blue, crouched in the doorway of the shelter where he was pinned by more arrows raining down too frequently for him to safely step out.

"Back behind." Davos gasped, drawing his sword. "Where are they?"

Jon turned over and sighted a sprinkling of red on the western side of Greencrown, rising to loose an arrow before ducking back out of view- for normal eyes anyways.

"South-west. About a dozen of them." Jon shared, reflexively ducking lower as an arrow sailed over the wall and buried itself into the dirt close by. "They're good."

"Those aren't stone or dragon glass." Davos held up one of the projectiles, presenting forged steel the likes of which Mikken would have produced by the barrel-full back in Winterfell. "And those bows aren't Wildling quality either. Is anybody in this part of the North what they're rumoured to be?"

"I'll distract them." Jon undid his cloak and bundled it against his chest. "On my signal, get Tormund and reposition somewhere with cover."

The old man offered no argument, having learned long ago to recognize where his own talents lay and when to delegate to those more experienced in other areas. When Jon tossed his cloak up, the archers pierced it four times and pinned it to the ground as Jon vaulted over the low wall, charging out into the open. Only his inhuman speed allowed him to cross Greencrown unscathed, save for a few grazes and another non-fatal hit to one of his arms when he held it up to protect his face. The skill of the ambushers was far beyond what simple raiders or levies would possess, shown by how they coordinated their fire almost as though each bowman was But an extension of a single will, nearly riddling Jon with perfectly synced barrages.

And yet the nearest of them was not prepared for the moment when Jon conjured his spectral bow, let loose with an arrow of his own…only to reappear inches from the man's face. Jon gripped the shocked man by a cloak that seemed to be made of grass and tugged him forward so that his lower face met Jon's forehead. The bowman went sprawling, but was not dead from the hit. Death was something Jon wanted to avoid at all possible this far north.

The others reoriented to follow him, but Jon was already gone, reappearing by the nearest of their number and repeating his non-fatal attacks twice more before he felt that he no longer possessed the energy to resume this pattern…for now. He leapt down into a space between the rock structures to evade fire from the upper tier and found three men armed with a spear and axes waiting for him.

It was easy for him to slip out of the way of the spearman's opening jab and then wrap his hand around the haft of the weapon, holding it in place long enough for Longclaw to come down and sever the blade and uppermost foot of the weapon from the rest. Jon wielded the broken spearhead and Longclaw in tandem, backpedaling to avoid the ferocious swings of the axemen as they tried to leverage the lack of maneuvering space.

Finally one overreached and found his weapon trapped between Longclaw and the spearhead before being forced down into the ground where Jon stomped on the axe's handle, shattering it like a twig before he drove his fist into the gaping man's abdomen and sending him to his knees.

The final axeman Jon simply vaulted over, using him as leverage to bring the Fist of the First Men up and strike the spearman as he tried to swing his broken weapon's haft like a club. This blow flung him off his feet and left him laid out with a significant portion of his upper chest covered in a layer of frost. Jon finished the engagement with a second swing of the hammer and checked his surroundings for more foes hidden close by.

 _Six. All retreating._

Jon sheathed Longclaw and called out. "It's all clear! They've gone." A silent warning cry of his preternatural senses made him spin around and reach up, catching the downward swing of the axeman he'd left in a fetal position before. The man pressed down with both arms, powerful muscles honed by work and combat straining to overcome Jon and yet failing to do more than make Jon's own arm briefly quiver in effort.

"Utensaider!" The man hissed, switching to common tongue next. "Fuck you!"

Jon used the man's own momentum against him, side stepping the swing and tugging him forward to fling him out into the murky pond at the heart of Greencrown. The man sputtered and clambered back out, but by then found himself surrounded by three armed and displeased looking men.

"Well, we know you can speak common tongue now." Ser Davos said dryly. "So you'll understand what I mean when I say 'yield or die'."

Xxx

Seven prisoners were bound up and tied in a line before most of them had even regained consciousness. Davos examined their weapons and armour while Tormund and Jon waited for them all to be awake and aware for questioning.

"That's some hospitality you Skani have." Tormund said, smirking at the glowering, green painted faces of the prisoners, all of them men ranging from one no older than Jon to one no younger than Davos. "Made me feel nostalgic for a minute, it did. But now whether or not what I do next makes me think even more fondly of home is up to you."

One of the men spat on the ground. "Utensaider vuh-kuhm!" He snarled. "You're not welcome in our lands, invaders!"

The Bright Stranger whispered in Jon's ear. "They speak a distinctive variation of the Old Tongue, the speech of the Kelpies. A wonder it has survived. Let us see if our unusually well educated hosts respond better to it."

"Utensaidi ka vier, ban ka eir din fienor." Jon roughly repeated what he was told and saw the captives' respond with varying amounts of surprise.

"The fuck did you say to 'em?" Tormund whispered.

"I said we may be outsiders, but we aren't their enemies." Jon mumbled back and then spoke clearly again. "We hav come to your island because the people of Skagos claim a monster lives here, a monster which has harassed their own lands for generations now and supposedly drove all men from this one."

The oldest of the fighters hissed sharply at the rest, silencing them when they made to respond to this. "There are no monsters here. Skane is ours, and others have tried and failed to take it from us. Go now and you will not have to join them in their endless rest when our people come looking for us."

Tormund sighed and stood up, sword in hand. "Alright then, Snow said we should play nice, but if that's how you want it…" he looked to Jon and waited to receive a nod before approaching the old man.

The other prisoners protested and began to struggle and rise to their feet before Jon unhooked the Fist from his belt. Already the ones who he'd struck with it had shared what little they remembered of being hit by it with their companions in the moments' reprieve before the interrogation. None of them wished to find out how true it as.

Tormund hauled the old man to his feet…and cut loose the ropes around his hands. "Go. Tell your people." He shoved the man away. "And tell them Tormund Giantsbane will have words with them, else we'll start sending your youngest there back one piece at a time." He levelled his blade at the youngest of the skirmishers. "A meeting. Neutral ground. No tricks, no ideas of a heroic rescue. You come back alone with terms…" he held the tip of his sword close enough to brush some of the young man's beard hair. "Got it?"

The old fighter slowly nodded, eyes darting between each of his companions. Jon could almost see an exchange of words play out before him without so much as a breath. These men had worked together for a long time, long enough that they could communicate subtly through expression and body language that would go unnoticed. It reminded him of himself with Robb or Arya, particularly the latter when he had to cover for her latest escapades. Entire discussions could be compressed down into the slightest of actions this way.

"Got it?!" Tormund repeated louder. "Say it."

"I understand." The old man's voice was like a low rumble, his glare promising vengeance upon the Giantsbane if anything were to happen to the younger man.

 _They've not just worked closely, they are all close._ Jon realized. _They truly care for one another's wellbeing. Almost…like a Pack._

The old man trudged away, vanishing through the western end of the settlement.

"Aw fuck." Tormund sighed once the man was out of sight.

"What's wrong?" Davos asked, holding up a dagger with a curved blade of such quality that it would be almost deemed castle-forged back on the mainland.

"Should've demanded they bring food too." Tormund gave Jon a withering stare. "Because this lot doesn't have a crumb to share among them and you'd cut your own stomach and cook it before you leave prisoners to starve."

There were some places in the world where that wouldn't strictly be true, but Jon had no grievance with the Skani. If what they said was true they were simply protecting their lands from outsiders, as was the right of anyone who feared just who or what might cross into their home unchallenged. They were not Boltons or Freys, they had no part in the destruction of his family.

 _Fucking hell, Giantsbane. I hadn't even considered that until now._

With luck, the old man wouldn't take long to return.

Xxx

 **The North**

To travel from Winterfell to the Dreadfort or vice versa, one had to cross the White Knife, a vast river fed from Long Lake all the way down into the Bite where the North and Vale shared the long bay. Crossings were well maintained under Ned Stark in the aftermath of Robert's Rebellion to better facilitate trade from the east coast, a fact which had given Bolton messengers no shortage of options for routes to takes between the two castles. A single trip still took several days on horseback, but Roose Bolton had conceived of a system to shave off more time.

At least, that was according to the Bolton scouts who'd been quick to sing under Hugo Wull's tender care. It was they who had explained the lack of ravens flying between the Bolton-held lands. It appeared the new Warden of the North did not trust ravens to arrive safely with the threat of Stannis' forces pushing further south, and therefore entrusted important messages with experienced riders aided by his own ingenuity.

The lands of the North were dotted with ancient keeps which had fallen into disuse, towns that now lay abandoned for fear of (or directly because of) Ironborn reavers in their short lived claim over the North. Bolton men took hold of these places and affected repairs enough to make them reliable against the almost constant snowfall. From there they pressed smallfolk into service, more often than not by way of threats, to clear the roads of snow and help maintain several more or less well maintained paths from east to west. Riders could exchange horses at risk of collapsing dead from chill and exhaustion, or pass the message on to another reserve rider if very explicit instructions permitted this.

For anyone who thought to intercept these riders on the move, it would have taken weeks to pin down where to strike.

For Syronos Dirrin, Captain and First Sword of the Free Blades of Braavos, it took only one day of research and another three of hard riding. One thing that was usually the first anyone learned of the sellsword was that he liked to read: a lot. In his spare time when he was not sparring with his men (or more recently with knights, Clansmen and men-at-arms) he was found with a stack of books containing history of the North.

A number of men mocked him for this bookish inclination, but they were those who forgot that history included the holdfasts of now defunct families, as well as their locations relevant to more modern maps that excluded these places. The Forresters maintained a large library which included these older maps, some from as far back as the last Bolton Rebellion where many of these holdfasts were left bereft of any lord or master.

What helped him narrow down the list was Ned Stark's meticulous handling of the North's infrastructure. The Quiet Wolf had gone above and beyond what most lords would do to improve their holdings during his first decade as Warden, paying for surveys of the North's most well travelled routes and their improvement, expansion and subsequent addition to maps that marked minor settlements and abandoned keeps which would have been invisible in any other kingdom. From there he'd worked on surveying resources that could help in surviving the next impending winter at the time, drawn up plans with the aid of his Maester to try and maximize the kingdom's output of crop production.

His tireless work gave Syronos Dirrin, Hugo Wull and Rodrik Forrester everything they needed to establish the most likely routes which would be taken. From there the Lord of Ironrath provided experienced trackers who were paid handsomely to guide men of House Wull and the Free Blades across the vast stretch, guiding them south-east towards the White Knife where they were able to monitor several crossings.

And fortune led them to following one lone rider to a holdfast known as Brandon's Den. Once an unofficial seat of Brandon Snow in the reign of Torrhen 'the King who Knelt' Stark, it had laid abandoned when the king's bastard brother departed Westeros in protest of his sibling bending the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. Since then it was occasionally occupied for the sake of housing soldiers on task or squatters seeking shelter from the elements.

Now it lay in Bolton hands, the flayed man's banner flapping atop the battlements of the small compound. It was arranged in a simple blackish shape, with an outer wall protecting an inner keep with stables, a rookery and a crumbling tower visible from a distance.

This little fort of Brandon's Den was the candidate for their first foray into the layers of protection that Roose Bolton wove around his plans. It was on one of the routes cleared by his forces, yet it was positioned far enough from other waypoints that on any particularly bad day a messenger might be forced to stop there to either swap mounts or rest until the weather let up. Not a guarantee, but a significantly higher chance compared to other routes.

That chance had paid off, for a rider carrying correspondence bound for Winterfell and Roose Bolton now resided behind those walls.

"I count two men by the gate, two more over it…" Syronos scanned the battlements. "At least three more pairs patrolling this side and I'd wager that the Boltons could house as many as a hundred men here for the long term."

"Closer to sixty." Hugo Wull huffed, leaning heavily against a nearby tree. "I wouldn't mind the steeper odds. More flayers to butcher that way."

"Yes, but it also decreases our chances of actually winning, much less bringing back any information for King Stannis." Syronos pointed out. "We're just over one-score, at best they will outnumber us three to one, at worst: five to one. Every loss hurts us far more than them. Unlike Highpoint and Deepwood Motte, the enemy is on guard, heavily entrenched and ready for the earliest sign of an attack."

"I know." Hugo Wull grinned. "Fuckers can't escape us now."

The chief's optimism, while doing little to alleviate Syronos' concerns, was at least contagious enough to to make the sell-sword slightly less apprehensive about their chance of success.

Only slightly.

"Then let's make a plan and see how lucky we are in the end."

Not one hour passed before Syronos hauled himself over the decaying battlements of Brandon's Den. With the movements of the sentries plotted he was able to time his ascension perfectly to avoid being spotted and crept along the wall, followed by two of his men. First he disposed of the nearest pair of sentries, then pressed on to the gate house where the next two met similar fates while bowmen in the trees took out the ones below before they could raise an alarm.

Syronos waved one hand and hurried down to the gate itself, little more than a set of heavy wooden doors added by the Boltons to provide some basic security. With help he lifted the bar sealing it and pulled the doors open to admit a wave of fifteen clansmen led by Theo Wull and another dozen Free Blades who scattered across the outer walls to deal with the other patrols while Wull's men moved through the outlying structures around the keep.

Quiet as a breeze, the clansmen slipped their knives between ribs and clasped their hands over mouths to silence sleeping Bolton soldiers. While the men of the northern mountains were known for their ferocity in combat, the world was quick to ignore or forget that they were also hunters and skirmishers who were more at home crawling through the thick wilderness and in caves that ran deep beneath the earth. They were taught from when they could walk and wield even a simple hunting bow to avoid startling prey or giving themselves away with an errant footstep in the wrong place.

Meanwhile, Syronos and his Blades set fire it the stables and sent the horses their running out into the yard in a panic. This drew attention away from the section of the fort targeted by the Clansmen, allowing them to settle in the now empty rooms and wait as newly awakened Bolton soldiers raced past towards the disturbance.

These men raced into a killing ground, stepping into the glare from the fire only to be riddled with arrows from the ramparts. Blades popped into view, loosed an arrow and then ducked back out of sight so they could reposition, keeping the Boltons from marking their location once they'd realized what was happening in the confusion that swept through Brandon's House.

If there had been as many as Syronos had feared, the element of surprise would have been lost with only twenty-some Bolton soldiers claimed for it with four times as many mustering to meet the attackers. Instead there was barely fifty spread across the fort, most of them conscripted levies who had, at best, a few periods of training spread across their short-lived military careers. They were little more than fodder against the seasoned veterans of the Blades and near-feral Mountain Clansmen who fought and trained with greater regularity.

Still, Syronos did find one that stood out from the rest as he surged forward to the central keep, finding the way blocked by two men in full armour with the Flayed Man emblazoned across their chests, wielding large axes which had claimed the lives of two Clansmen and a Blade who had tried to pass.

Tossing aside his short bow, Syronos sized the pair up and reached for the thin, slender blade hanging at his waist.

 _I must disappoint you tonight, Flayers._ He drew the blade with a single motion. _We of Braavos are not inclined to your hacking and chopping._

The first axeman started with a broad swing that would have cut Syronos clean in half, only to cut through thin air as the sellsword danced back, giving ground and making an ineffective jab at the man's armoured shoulder.

 _You charge ahead like maddened bulls seeking to tear apart anything in their path._

Syronos kept track of both of them, allowing them to push him back from the Keep's entrance. The closer of them, breathing heavily from exertion, over-swinging and smashing his axe blade against stoneworks where fragments were chipped away and the weapon's edge was ruined. He still lunged after Syronos, demanding he stand and fight only for the Essosi to use his own momentum to seize him by the wrist and pull him forward, making the man stumble and turn about in an effort to keep his footing. He had no time to even struggle before Syronos pulled him back in, bringing his throat right into the point of the slender blade so far that it sprouted out through the base of his skull.

 _We of the Free Blades know that you do not need such heavy weapons and powerful swings to make men bleed._

Syronos watched the man's eyes bulge beneath his helmet before life faded from them. He quickly pulled his blade back and kicked the dead man in the chest, right into the path of the second axeman who roared and leapt over his comrade's body. Syronos twisted and ducked out of the way of three vicious swings before dropping low and slapping his blade against the back of the man's knee, knocking him off balance and leaving him open to a jab up under his arm, slipping through the gap in his armour and leaving his arm unable to support the cumbersome axe.

Now left with one hand, the man made an attempt to keep up the fight. Syronos batted aside his first swing whilst side stepping and jabbed through the man's neck from the side, letting his momentum carry him as his charge turned into a stumble before the axeman finally collapsed facedown in the snow, staining it red in his final moments.

Syronos rose to his full height and flicked fresh blood off of his blade before continuing on to the keep's entrance.

 _We know that when you poke a man full of holes, water comes out no matter how much armour he wears._

Inside he encountered a few frightened levies and a lone officer who was quick to surrender, believing that Stannis' precious fire worshippers were responsible for the attack and hoping to avoid being burnt to death. Syronos allowed this illusion to be upheld until the man were disarmed and secured by the remaining nineteen members of his company.

"My friends!" He called from the keep's lone tower. "The fort is ours!"

The Blades and Clansmen broke into thunderous cheers, raising their weapons high as the remaining Bolton men cowered among them. It was easy enough to convince the prisoners to provide the name and face of the messenger who had arrived shortly before the attack…

Or rather, what was left of his face after the man had made the mistake of trying to stab Big Bucket Wull in the back.

All was not lost however, for a search of the fort still provided some prizes for the attackers. They found the messenger's correspondence as well as a number of non-critical messages in the form of bulletins used to keep the Bolton garrison apprised of anything deemed important for them to know.

Of course, with the former: it was less satisfying on account of Roose Bolton being even smarter than Syronos had given him credit for.

"A what?" Hugo Wull stared, dumbfounded at the parchment of utter gibberish that lay unrolled between him and the Sellsword.

"A cypher." Syronos groaned, realizing that the Mountain Clans would perhaps be some of the few to never really have cause or need for encrypting their letters in such a way. "Think of this message as a lock, and a cypher as the key that unlocks it. It is a key that old have been forged directly by Roose Bolton or one of his commanders and that means we have few if any means of obtaining it. Without it, this message may as well be, as you put so eloquently: an utter waste of time and men!"

Syronos drove a dagger through the parchment in frustration.

"But…this does tell us somethin', doesn't it?" Wull inquired.

"And what would that be?" Syronos rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the previous day catching up to him.

"We know that Bolton _must_ be hidin' something now." The chieftain reasoned. "Why try to hide words if you don't fear people readin' them?"

"For all we know this could just be a standard practice in the Bolton army." Syronos countered.

"If that were so, then this…cypher would have to be held by quite a few men, wouldn't it?" Wull tapped the parchment. "Too many know and a secret isn't a secret anymore."

The mountain man's logic was…strangely sound if not simplistic and straight forward. If the entire Bolton army relied on encoded messages being used to relay every major order then they would need someone capable of decoding them at every point where these messages would be intended. Lords and commanders might be trusted with it, but even they were prone to being captured and made to talk.

No, to keep the cypher hidden, it had to be kept between as few as possible. Roose Bolton would obviously need to know it, as well as any who would be relevant to ensuring these concealed messages were delivered and acted upon. The simplest means of securing this knowledge was to make sure there was no material, such as a written cypher, that would allow one's enemies to acquaint themselves with the process.

It had to be taught, dedicated to memory.

 _Who would Roose Bolton trust enough to teach the means of decoding these messages?_

The answer came to him quickly enough. The message was intended _for_ Winterfell, sent _from_ the Dreadfort…which was manned and kept secure by a man whose identity had become well known among the ranks of Stannis' army.

Steelshanks Walton, the Captain of the Dreadfort's garrison and one of Roose Bolton's most trusted lieutenants.

"The cypher is beyond our reach." Syronos concluded. "Let us be rid of this place as quickly as we can and leave the Boltons nothing they can use as a shelter for their riders. Perhaps we will disrupt whatever plan they conceal from us if we break their line of way castles."

"No protest from me." Wull removed the dagger from the parchment and rolled it back up. "But let's see what the Boltons have been letting their men know."

The bulletins were mostly forgettable updates, some mentioning the fall of Highpoint and Ironrath or listing houses that remained loyal to the Dreadfort, had sided with the Stag or had yet to take a side. More recent notices saw a rise in the second group, which Syronos attributed to Stannis' Wight being paraded from one holdfast to another.

But one more notice posted only days ago caught his attention for the icon of a purple bird, a nightingale by its shape, over a field of black with four white stars forming a hollow box around it.

It read that a lady of House Bell out of White Harbour had been spotted fleeing into Hornwood lands, and that she was to be considered a conspirator of Stannis's rebellion, captured alive if found and delivered to Winterfell.

"Bell, Bell…" Syronos racked his brain, searching for where he'd seen that name before only to come up with nothing.

"Reachers who followed the Mermen north to escape the Gardeners." Wull provided. "The Mermen built White Harbour and ruled it in the Stark's name, but they've bannermen who like to think their liegelord's success is theirs. The Bells…I at least had respect for them once, but then their Lord died and their Lady hasn't the kindness to do the same."

"Tell me of them." Syronos requested, ripping the bulletin down and stashing it beneath his coat.

"They say they used to be hunters like no other. Hunted monsters, even the Others and their ilk if you believe it." Wull snorted. "If you'd had the chance to meet Victor Bell, you really would've believed it. Made those southron knights piss themselves in battle, fought in the van in the Stag's rebellion. He fell on the Trident, but at the hands of the White Viper himself, and he left him bleedin' and weak he did."

 _The White Viper…_

Syronos recalled similar titles.

The White Bat, Oswell Whent.

The White Bull, Gerold Hightower.

The White Lion, Jaime Lannister.

…

The White Viper, Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne, slain at the hands of some braggart Valeman after suffering grievous injury.

"Well shit," Syronos breathed. "Perhaps in the memory of this Victor Bell we should see whether these rumours are true."

And if the woman in question knew anything more of the Boltons' plans, all the better. In the opposite case that this turned out to be a mummer's tale to sew confusion it would at the very least give them reason to go deeper into Bolton lands.

If this woman was bait or loyal to the Boltons…he preferred not to dwell on what might happen if that was proven to be the truth.

"Then to Hornwood it is." Hugo grabbed a lit torch off of the wall. "But first: let's light us a fire.

Xxx

 **Skane**

Night fell before Jon saw that they were being approached. The prisoners had behaved themselves and shared in some of the rations brought from the _Sea Dragon_ , making the few hours before night fell peaceful. He was sitting cross legged on one of the stone huts, keeping watch when he saw a dot of colour appear through the lens of the Wraith World, allowing him to spot the old man. Making his return journey long before he would have been close enough to see in the light of the camp fire surrounded by the bound Skani.

Jon shadowed him, experimenting with his agility and speed while seeing how long he could remain several feet away without being noticed. He hadn't the luxury of testing the limits of his new state very often outside of combat, and relished the chance to see where he excelled or failed. The man didn't notice him until he'd reached the camp fire and one of his companions recoiled at the sight of Jon stepping into view mere inches behind him.

The Skani turned and almost tripped as he stumbled away.

"Do we have our meeting?" Jon asked directly.

Shaken, the old man nodded. "At…Ashcrown, to the west. Tonight. With all of our people brought back to us."

This would give the Skani all manner of opportunities to ambush them on the way…if Jon wasn't able to spot them a mile away.

"Agreed." Jon motioned for Tormund and Davos to get their prisoners on their feet. "If any of you try to run before we reach an accord with your leaders I guarantee you won't get far. Do nothing to try and escape or ruin these talks and I promise you will be returned to your homes and families."

Whether they believed him or not was irrelevant. They were terrified of him, which was all he needed to be certain of their good behaviour. They marched close together in a straight line across the dark, chilling plains of Skane, passing through some lightly wooded areas and once even through a shallow stream.

It took nearly an hour and a half before Jon saw a change in the terrain. There were signs of a road, a genuine roadway that was not merely some narrow path cleared of plants and rocks and flattened down. Lanterns hung from sign posts, lighting the way and putting Davos and Tormund on guard as the nearby light forced their eyes to adjust.

"There's no one close by." Jon told them. "But be ready all the same."

The path wound up into a collection of hills, leaving behind the windswept grasslands for more confined ravines and stretches of thicker forest. Here there were occasional huts or full sized houses off to either side of the road. He could see the occupants within, either asleep or peeking through gaps in their window shutters at the procession. None made any attempt to interfere, though whether this was from fear or by instruction of their leaders was unclear.

"Here." The old man finally pointed ahead. "Ashcrown. Home."

The forest thinned out to a short span of flat ground…surrounding what looked like a massive bowl carved into the earth that sloped downwards, several hundred meters across. At the bottom of this bowl rested a tree of familiar white bark and red leaves…with a face carve into it so large that Jon could see it from the ledge.

"A Heartree." Tormund whispered. "A real one."

The tree was not alone in the crater. Vast roots rose up through the dirt, shaping themselves in ways that Jon had never imagined possible, forming into structures spread across the floor of the depression from the Heartree's base. Some of these extensions were so large that they supported houses held up off of the ground, formed pools and canals feeding water in from a stream on one end of the depression and out through some unseen egress. Figures in the same drab attire of the Skani moved through the streets of roots and dirt, across bridges and perched atop branches. Lights by the hundreds illuminated this city, emitted not from lanterns but the very roots that formed it, bathing it in a soft emerald glow.

"By the gods." The Stranger appeared at his side. "This is no city made by the hands of man."

Tormund muttered something in the Old Tongue while Davos' good hand fumbled for something just below his neck.

"This…is Ashcrown?" Jon almost took one step too far and barely stopped himself from tumbling over the ledge.

"Snow!" Tormund, seeing Jon lose his balance, quickly lunged and grabbed him by the arm, heaving him back and making Jon trip in the process.

As he made to rise Jon looked up and began to thank Tormund, internally cursing himself for getting hypnotized by the view…and yet when he looked up words of gratitude turned into a warning cry.

"LOOK OUT!" He pointed up at the dark mass that plunged down towards them, visible to his Wraith sight as a gargantuan red form…with a set of vast, leathery wings unfurled to their full length just as it crashed down where they stood.

Xxx

End of Chapter

I've been a little back and forth on how I wish to establish phrases in the Old Tongue, and wish to try and keep things consistent as I can.

The Speech of the Kelpies is the result of the idea that while the Free Folk may possess numerous languages, perhaps different tribes of Children of the Forest also spoke their own distinctive dialect based on where they made their homes. All may have known the Old Tongue, but it eventually developed into several languages much like how Latin developed into the Romance Languages. Realistically I think the language would have evolved beyond recognition ever since the Children passed it on to the First Men of Skane, but we are talking about a world where medieval periods persist for thousands of years, seasons can last up to a decade or a generation and people can look at a seven hundred foot tall, hundred league long wall and think 'the First Men built that to keep out other First Men'. So I think I can be forgiven for making it something that wouldn't be total gibberish to the Stranger,

Speech of the Kelpie is derived heavily from Norwegian.

ADDENDUM: I realized that in this chapter I mistakenly called identified Hugo Wull as Theo Wull.


	14. Chapter 13: Ash and Fire

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Thirteen: Ash and Fire**

 **The Bay of Seals**

Her Lord was not one to always speak clearly to her through the flames, but he had been plain in telling her to go to Skagos with Jon Snow. Ever since he had risen as a Gravewalker and set his plans the lonely island surrounded by fire and shadow had been the only thing she saw. Yet she had not set foot on the island once, remaining a prisoner in all but name by the command of Ser Davos, who had taken the steps to ensure that the crew was made of sailors loyal to him and that the small party of Queen's Men remained landlocked until Rickon Stark was found.

The ship had been repositioned in the mouth of a harbour controlled by House Magnar, a small port town attached to Kingston by a series of roads reaching up through the thick forest. The crew was permitted to disembark in shifts, leaving only a skeleton crew to ensure the ship was ready to move if needed.

All were free to come and go except for her, and she would not lift a hand against men of her Prince without sufficient cause. The visions had subsided as soon as they pulled into the harbour, with the Lord of Light remaining silent for a while after. She was content to remain for the time being, waiting for the next sign to guide her.

And yet, as time dragged on into days she found herself beginning to feel the beginnings of frustration as she pondered those who her Lord had marked as important for the coming war. She had journeyed to Dragonstone in search of Stannis, guided by the absolute certainty that he was the Prince who was Promised, destined to drive back the darkness of the Great Other and restore the dawn. What should have been a great crusade to unite the kingdoms under one king and one god had been faced with continuous adversity…until Stannis journeyed north and found Jon Snow.

A bastard son of a tree worshipping Northman, the stain on the honour of supposedly the most honourable man in Westeros. Ned Stark had supported Stannis' claim, but she was not so foolish as to imagine that he would have entirely abided everything that had been done in the name of claiming his rightful throne. And yet his seed, born of passion amidst the fire of war and brought into his home despite every tenant of Westerosi culture, misguided as it was, discouraging this.

And the Lord's will had carried this bastard, one enriched with the blood of one of the oldest lines of kings in the known world, to the Wall where the frontlines of the Great War would be. It had placed him in a position of command just long enough to begin ferrying the barbarian Free Folk to safety…and then when he was struck down it had allowed him to rise again, stronger than ever and gifted with the companionship and power of a departed soul.

Jon Snow had a great part to play in the war to come, that much was certain.

And yet…part of her began to wonder if she had been wrong about Stannis. There was no denying that he was an impressive commander, a dedicated leader driven by duty…but when the two were placed next to one another there was one who shone brighter than the other in more ways than one.

Seated in her private quarters, she stared into the flames of a candle provided to allow her enough light to read messages delivered from Ser Narbert. These updates had lost what little of her curiosity they'd held before, rehashing tales of paganism engulfing the island and mockery directed at the Lord of Light's mere mention just as she had anticipated. Setting aside the latest correspondence, she gazed into the flame of the candle more out of habit before moving to put it out…but something made her stop short.

She saw something…something that came to her now as the vision of Skagos had many days ago.

Another island, windswept and isolated from the world by the Shivering Sea.

The darkness that she saw here on Skagos was there…and so much stronger.

 _Skane…_

Jon Snow had journeyed there to satisfy the Lord of Magnar, to slay a monster threatening Skagos.

If it and the darkness were one and the same…then that was where she would be needed.

She found a few sailors gathered on the deck around a dice game with rules that were as alien to her as they were irrelevant. "We must set sail immediately."

The four men looked up with a start before one of them cursed. "Gods, be careful when you go around scaring people like that." He stood up. "This ship doesn't move without Ser Davos' command, Lady Melisandre, even you can't change that."

"The Hand of the King's life may very well depend on this ship reaching Skane as quickly as possible." Melisandre persisted.

Another of the men rolled his eyes. "You get that from another sconce?"

 _Insolent, ignorant…_

"Alright Lady Melisandre, I hate to disappoint but like I said: this ship doesn't move on your word, but on the Hand's." The first speaker stood up. "If you can't accept that then perhaps you should sleep on it with a nice little candle to keep you company. Back to your quarters now." He reached out, and in that instant Melisandre felt an erupting heat within her chest that flowed down her arms and into her palms.

 _Show him…show them all the Lord's power…_

Something guided her hand up with the speed of a viper, clamping onto the side of the man's face. A hiss akin to meat being cooked over a fire filled the air as the man shrieked and collapsed to his knees.

The other three men leapt to their feet.

"Tom!"

"Get the witch!"

Another lunged at her, but Melisandre moved with speed she hadn't known she possessed and clamped both hands onto his head next, reducing him to a howling wreck like his companion. This repeated with the other two men while shouts came from further aft and below deck, coming from men roused by the screams of their crew mates and coming to their aid.

When they arrived they found all four on their feet and standing to either side of Melisandre…their faces bearing hand shape marks of the darkest black.

"What happened up here?" One of the newcomers asked.

Tom stepped forward. "We have new orders." When he spoke his voice lacked the same drawl it had before, now steady and to the point. "We set sail for Skane immediately."

These men were just as quick to question these orders, but within a few short minutes the vessel departed from the harbour, vanishing into the night as the Skagosi watchmen were left towatch in puzzlement before hurrying to report this both to the crew still on shore and the Captain of the Watch.

Xxx

 **Skane, Ashcrown**

Jon felt the ground become upended under his feet, shattered by the landing of the immense form while a gust of wind swept him up and flung him away from the ledge. A branch snapped across his back before he found himself deposited face down on the ground. The throbbing pain in his back slowly dissipated as he pushed himself up and shook his head, once more thankful for the physical benefits of his shared existence with the Stranger. Had he not been as he is now he very well could have…

 _Tormund! Davos!_

Quickly scrambling to his feet, Jon drew Longclaw and raced back through the foliage to find several of the Skani prisoners free and helping the others get loose from their bonds. Davos, Tormund and whatever had attacked were nowhere to be found. Down in Ashcrown he could hear overlapping shouts and the bellowing of a horn in three quick notes.

One of the Skani saw Jon making his return and snatched up Tormund's weapon where it lay in the dirt, bringing it around to one side. Jon stepped in past their guard and locked his hand around their sword hand, following up with slipping Longclaw in behind the guard and leveraging it to rip the weapon out of the man's grasp before ending with a pommel bash to the man's midsection to double him over.

"Where did they go?" Jon demanded, holding the man up by the tunic. "Tell me where they went!"

Coughing, the man raised one limb with strain and pointed a single shaking digit upwards and off to one side. Jon followed it with his eyes just as something bright flew up out of the bowl of earth and exploded in a flash of green, bathing the surrounding area with light and saving Jon a trip to the Wraith World to see the thing that was now perched on one of the nearby cliffs…

 _Gods…_

He had seen their imagery in books before, heard copious amounts of text dedicated to descriptions of what they had been like in life, and yet none of it did any true justice to what was staring at Jon with golden eyes and a maw lit by a rising flame.

It was said that at his prime, Balerion the Black Dread had been of such size that he could swallow whole a mammoth, with a skull the size of an abode resting in the tunnels beneath the Red Keep among the remains of others of his kind in the waning years of the Targaryen dynasty. Such dimensions had always given Jon, Robb, Theon and later Arya and Bran cause to wager during lessons with Maester Luwin on how large the rest of the dragon's body must have been. The old man had told them that exact measurements of the Black Dread had been lost, yet records of younger dragons struck down before their time or lost to sickness remained to give some indication of dragon growth patterns.

This one was easily larger than any size that Jon had bet on in those days. Its wings were spread out so far to either side that he could imagine them shading hundreds of full grown men from the emerald glow. A tail stretched so far that it vanished into the trees behind the great beast, knocking one over with frightening casual ease. Its head was decorated with formations of spikes that formed a crown sloping backwards over dark, armoured scales…

And in the grasp of one of its hind legs, held in a cage of claws, were Tormund and Davos, both dazed and only now realizing where they were.

Jon tossed the Skani aside and dashed towards where the dragon, ripped right out of history books and tales of fire and death, perched and unleashed a shriek as if in challenge to him.

 _I'm running towards a dragon._ Jon thought as he slipped between tree trunks and leapt over rocks. _I'm running towards a fucking dragon!_

"Who the fuck runs _towards_ a dragon?!" He asked while clearing a shallow ravine in an effortless leap.

"One who needn't fear dragon fire." The Stranger answered, his form overlapping Jon's as they both sank into the Wraith World so as to keep the dragon in sight through the canopy of leaves and branches. "I don't know how this thing came to be here, but perhaps its rider might tell us."

 _Rider?!_

He hadn't seen before. The dragon appeared as a large red mass that had camouflaged another figure perched atop it, nestled amidst spikes and using them as hand holds. At this distance he could see the figure rise to its full height, all features shrouded by a cowl and cloak not unlike what the Skani wore. In one hand they wielded a longbow that was stark white against the greens and browns of their attire.

"A weirwood longbow." The Stranger hissed as the rider nocked and slowly drew back their first arrow. "No ordinary man can wield such a weapon without extensive training. Take caution!"

The rider loosed their arrow, and Jon almost failed to slip out of its path even with his enhanced speed. The arrow lodged itself into a nearby tree, sinking more than halfway through the trunk. Jon gaped at the sight before the singing of a second arrow drove him to dive to one side, narrowly evading the rider's second shot.

"What kind of bow is that?" Jon had seen Ygritte make use of a similar bow, but even with her impressive show of archery she hadn't been able to make an arrow sink halfway into a tree.

"One that was not carved, but sung." The Stranger whispered. "The Children shaped weapons and entire cities from the weirwood, just like Ashcrown. Each piece that is coaxed from its mother tree rather than cut out by force carries with it the essence of the forest gods, imbuing both it and its wielder with power."

"That's just-" Jon was cut off when something slammed into his torso and flung him back, pinning him against the ground with the shaft of a great arrow protruding from his stomach. A pained gasp escaped from him and his hands closed around the shaft, finding it stuck fast and needing greater use of his enhanced strength to dislodge.

A second arrow pierced his right shoulder before he could free himself, making Jon open his mouth in what would have been a scream if he had not already had the breath knocked from him. For the first time since his fight in the Haunted Forest with the Revanic he felt his limbs fail him and a chilling sensation blossom out from both wounds, spreading out across his body. Longclaw was nowhere within reach, knocked from his grasp several feet away where he'd been hit.

 _Can't reach…can't…_

"The Fist!" The Stranger stood over him, his image distorting that of the dragon on the far side as it dropped its captives and dropped down the cliff to land several dozen meters away. "Use the Fist!"

Jon's hand weakly grasped at the straps securing the ancient hammer to his belt. He could see the dragon use one of its wings to form a ramp for its rider to slide down, landing on their feet with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times. They held the weirwood longbow down by their side and approached, their cloak billowing out behind them to reveal a gleaming sword hilt at their hip with a gold pommel and a single ruby embedded into the guard.

"Nav dinsa, utensaider." The rider stated, their voice muffled by a thick mask covering their lower face beneath their cowl. "Fordo morg tar den."

 _Name yourself, outsider. Before death takes you._

The rider stopped as their foot brushed Longclaw's hilt. Looking down, they slowly knelt and set their longbow off to the side so they could pick the blade up.

"Valyrian steel…" They said as Jon finally released the Fist from his belt. "Where did you come by this-"

Jon swung the Fist down and unleashed a wedge of rock which slammed into the rider, knocking them off their feet. With a second swing he had had the earth beneath him break down into loose dirt and reshape itself to free the heads of the arrows impaled through him. With a gasp he turned onto his side and slowly worked the first arrow out of his midsection, drawing no blood but seeing what looked like pale green light bleed out through the injury before it sewed itself shut. The nausea and loss of strength afflicting him lifted partly, but did not vanish entirely even when the second arrow was dislodged.

Climbing to his feet, Jon almost fell flat on his face again when he took one step. The rider wheezed, one hand on their chest as they struggled to stand back up and draw their sword, only succeeding after Jon had taken up Longclaw once again and levelled it towards them. The blade they wielded was black as night, slender and smaller than Longclaw…and the wavy pattern within it erased any doubt about it being Valyrian steel also.

"Son of a festering-" The string of expletives escaped Jon as the rider batted Longclaw away and stabbed towards him, only to be turned aside as Jon sidestepped and shoved them into a low hanging branch that caught their hood and ripped it away along with the attached mask…revealing a head of pure white hair bound in a low, northern-style braid.

The rider turned about again, their Valyrian clashing against Jon's before he leveraged his greater strength to force the stygian blade into the ground with Longclaw keeping it pinned. At this distance and angle he could now see the rider as clear as day…

And what he saw was a pair of amethyst eyes glaring venomously at him, a face of alabaster skin marked by a scar crossing one cheek and down over the jawline. The young woman before him would have been beautiful in most lights, much in the same way that both Ygritte and Val possessed an unconventional beauty found sharp, angular features sculpted by a life that lacked for leisure.

This image was shattered when she reared her head back and slammed her forehead into his nose, momentarily breaking it before it reset itself as Jon stumbled back. He felt the woman's next attack coming and parried, giving ground as she launched an assault against him with the ferocity of an actual dragon not unlike the one that had crept closer to the fight, watching the pair with what passed for an intrigued expression in its gaze.

Jon finally found himself in the right position to lure the woman into making a mistake, grabbing her sword-hand and guiding her entire arm on a course that pinned her weapon between twin trees sprouting from the same trunk. It held long enough for Jon to wrench her hand away and deliver a frontal kick that sent her sprawling in the dirt. As soon as this occurred the dragon stretched its head forward, interposing itself between them and opening its maw to reveal the glow of an impending stream of fire the likes of which had laid waste to Harrenhal centuries ago.

Jon brought the Fist out again and slammed it into the side of the dragon's head, knocking it to one side and coating the scales in a thick layer of white frost that stood out against its scales, cast in the glow of a stream of fire that engulfed several nearby trees and lit up the grove. The dragon yelped in what sounded like a mixture of surprise and pain but otherwise seemed to be unharmed beyond that. Before it could recover Jon seized the woman by her cloak and hauled her up, snaking one arm around her neck and bringing Longclaw's edge up to rest just under her jaw.

"Call him off." Jon hissed. "Call him off now or I'll-"

"You'll what?" The girl spat, grinning despite her predicament. "Kill me and Sheep will lay waste to Skagos, Magnar."

 _Magnar? She thinks I'm the Lord of Magnar? Or maybe she thinks I'm the 'Magnar' or Lord of House Stark._

"I am no Magnar." Jon denied. "I am Jon Snow of Winterfell, and I did not come here seeking to shed blood."

"Then you chose the wrong place to come, outsider." The woman taunted. "We don't suffer intruders here, least of all Knights and Wildlings."

"You will suffer me." Jon contemplated using the same powers that he had inflicted upon the wights in the Haunted Forest, but even if it was possible to influence the mind of a living, breathing person it would open up all manner of discomforting implications. "You've seen me harm your dragon. You've seen me recover in seconds from wounds that would claim any other man. Do you truly wish to test whether your dragon will be enough to end me without dying himself?"

The woman's smile shrank. "Sheep has killed things a lot bigger than you."

"Bigger doesn't always mean stronger." Jon countered, backing up as the dragon fixed its golden-brown eyes on them and lowered its head down closer to their level. "In any case you won't be around to see the outcome. Your people on the other hand…"

Just as it seemed that the dragon was prepared to attack, the woman held up one hand and shouted. "Kelitis!"

The dragon stopped halfway through what may very well have been a lung to snap Jon's head up in its maw while leaving its rider unharmed. Jon kept from exhaling in relief or lowering his guard, maintaining his hold on the woman.

"Now, I'm going to ask you a few things." Jon said, checking through the Wraith World to confirm that both Tormund and Davos were alive and watching from the cliff nearby. "Who the hell are you and how the fuck did a dragon named 'Sheep' come to live on Skane?"

Xxx

End of Chapter


	15. Chapter 14: The Weaver

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Fourteen: The Weaver**

 **Skane, Ashcrown**

The dragon was _the_ Sheepstealer. Scales of an ugly brown shade, evidence of wounds inflicted long ago by skorpion bolt, by tooth and claw and dragon fire, a taste for cattle that the residents of Ashcrown seemed to keep in an abundance close to the crater that concealed their home. They did not look up at the dragon with fear or awe when both it and its rider made their way down into Ashcrown's twisting streets, but with relief and delight. At the base of the Heartree where Sheepstealer made his nest, children gathered close and even climbed upon the dragon's wings as he lay there, either unaware of their presence or ignoring them until a fresh sheep was brought forth for him to personally roast and devour.

A genuine dragon straight out of the annals of relatively recent history lay before them, the object of entertainment and adoration by the people of an island that most of the world forgot existed.

And his rider, a woman who was the perfect picture of a Valyrian, glared at Jon as he and his companions stood within a ring of Skani warriors who kept a safe distance, well aware of what Jon was capable of after the tales shared by the now freed prisoners. Others crowded around the edge of a platform that lay within the Heartree's shadow, directly beneath the immense face carved into it.

"A Gravewalker." The rider repeated.

"That's what I've been called." Jon confirmed with a nod. "Before you become incredulous, I'd remind you that you have a dragon named Sheep a stone's throw away." He pointed one thumb at the distant form of the now resting Sheepstealer.

"Fair enough, I suppose the world has enough space for the two." The rider shrugged. "So then, Jon the Gravewalker, tell me why my people shouldn't carve the three of you into a nice little warning for your precious king to see the next time he thinks of sending anyone to our shores?"

"Besides the fact that you haven't the means to permanently dispatch me?" Jon asked rhetorically. "And most people consider it polite if you introduce yourself before jumping into threats and bargaining."

"Who ever said there will be bargain?"

"You, when you permitted us into your city and set us in the sight of the gods." Jon pointed up at the carved face watching over the meeting. "This isn't a trial, it's a negotiation. You want something from us, and perhaps there is something we have to ask of you."

The rider settled herself upon a raised throne of sung-weirwood and laid her sword across her lap. "We've only a few things that anyone from the outside world would want, and we aren't keen on giving them up."

Davos stepped forward. "No one is asking you to give up anything, my lady." He said, bowing his head respectfully. "We were sent here to stop the attacks upon Skagos. The Lord of Kingshouse, Baldric Magnar, insisted that the source stemmed from your lands. We came in search of it and encountered your men at Greencrown. When they attacked us without warning or a demand for our surrender we were well within our rights to kill them, and yet we did not. We didn't even mistreat them beyond a few threats. Do our actions not speak loud enough to make it clear that we do not seek conflict with you and your people?"

Crossing one leg over the other, the rider propped an elbow on the arm rest of her throne and leaned into it. "We have never attacked the Stoneborn, nor has Sheep flown close to it save for when hunting demanded it. Even then, we have survived off of the beasts of the sea instead of raiding and pillaging. Sheep is not the culprit of these attacks."

Tormund gave an exaggerated sound of relief. "Well that's some fuckin' good news, at least." He muttered.

"If you would permit us to depart and continue our search for the true culprit," Davos proposed, "I would grant to you a promise as Hand of the King to Stannis of House Baratheon that your home would not face any danger from my liege's armies, now or in the future."

"Danger. Hah." The rider scoffed. "A thousand ships could sail for Mother Skane and not one would reach her shores. A hundred thousand of your knights could storm Ashcrown and be turned to ash before they ever come near. What danger should I fear from declining this offer?"

Davos glanced towards Jon before thinking better of it. "The threat from Beyond the Wall, my lady. The dead are marching, only one in every four or five of the Free Folk have managed to escape to safety in the south. We are working to reunite the Kingdom of the North under one banner to meet this threat and-"

"And I'm sure that you'd find Sheep to be most useful both in facing that threat…and in 'reuniting' plenty of kingdoms." The rider scowled and rose from her throne. "If the dead somehow march here then they will find nothing but fire and ash to meet them. Let them come and see what befalls those who threaten Mother Skane."

The Bright Stranger manifested at Jon's side. "This one truly is the Blood of Valyria." He grumbled. "Stubborn, hot headed and arrogant in thinking one aging dragon will save them. Let us focus on the purpose of our coming here."

Jon spoke up. "If you wish to be left alone then we will oblige. Allow us to go and we will deal with whatever has attacked Skagos. We will leave you and yours in peace and convey to King Stannis the importance of leaving you be."

"That right there brings another problem." The rider stepped down towards Jon. "What happens after that? When you report back to your King that the last true dragon in the world is nesting a short swim away? How many will eventually hear of it? How many will come here to try and kill or take Sheep simply because they think they can? We've known peace ever since he and my ancestor came along because the world thinks that Mother Skane is barren, empty, with nothing to offer them. What happens when they find out we have something that every would-be dragonlord and sorcerer wants?"

 _What's the best way to keep everyone'n their cunt grandmums from botherin' you, Lord Seaworth? Make'em think you've got nothing they want and everything they don't._

The further that one got from Skagos the more mired in mystery and embellishment the stories became. Skane was rarely mentioned, most prominently featuring in the story of the Feast of Skane. That was the most that anyone on Westeros knew of the small spit of an island, leaving them disinclined to ever think of visiting.

An island of stoneborn cannibals next to an island of ghost stories. What a perfect couple Mother Skane and Father Skagos would make if they ever bothered to communicate.

"Old Valyria and the Shadowlands beyond Asshai are said to have dragons and all sorts of wonders waiting to be pillaged," Davos pointed out quickly. "Most don't ever try because of all the terrors that dwell in those places or the great distances to be traversed. Even if word spread there are few who would dare believe it and fewer yet who would wish to sail so far on rumours alone. If everyone treated every alleged dragon sighting as fact they'd spend their whole lives chasing stories across the worls."

Moving around them in a circle, the rider looked to the uncertain and suspicious eyes of her people. "Perhaps you're right…but this remains a risk that I can't ignore." She said. "However the old tales say that a Gravewalker is near impossible to put down for good without the right tools, of which I have none. You were right to call my bluff before, Jon the Gravewalker."

"So if killin' us isn't an option, what'll it be?" Tormund asked.

"Simple." The rider let out a whistle. "Father!"

Slowly the ranks of the Skani shifted, parting to allow a man guided by a weirwood branch sung into the shape of a cane to step through. If Jon's heart still beat he was sure it would have nearly leapt from his throat at the sight of the familiar aged face…the thinned white hair, the pale unseeing eyes…

Just for a brief moment he thought that he was looking at Maester Aemon.

"Ease your throat before you lose your voice, Rhae." He croaked, assisted by two Skani children. "I am here."

 _Gods, he even sounds like him…_

"Father," The rider spoke more softly. "There are outsiders here."

"And you were rude enough to not introduce yourself." The old man said sharply as he was helped up onto the throne. "These are the first true guests of Ashcrown in its history, we should at least try to show some hospitality in spite of how these three came to stand here."

He settled himself into place just as shapes skittered out from under his sleeves and collar, crawling across his flesh and through his white hair. Jon took an involuntary step back as a spider the size of a cat appeared from behind the throne and crawled up onto the man's lap.

"Gods above…" The Stranger whispered. "It can't be…so many skins all at once? This is no ordinary Warg."

"I am Daemon." He said. "Lord of Ashcrown. Some more dramatic persons choose to name me 'The Weaver' for reasons that I imagine are plain to you." He brushed one hand across the spider's head as it's eight eyes stared at Jon, seeming to follow its master's sightless eyes. "And I believe you have met my daughter Rhae and my old friend Sheepstealer."

Jon could see more spiders emerging from under the roots, lowering themselves down from overhanging branches and crawling across the Heartree. There were thousands…maybe tens of thousands. The Skani seemed unresponsive to this, some children even giggle as the arachnids brushed past them or across their feet.

 _I don't think even Arya could be convinced to live here for all the sword training in the world._

"We are honoured to meet you, Lord Daemon." Davos kept his composure while Tormund was rooted in place, eyes bulging as many of the spiders hovered within inches of his face. The war chief was doing everything in his power to not swipe them away.

"Please, don't mind my friends." Daemon chuckled and shooed the spider off of his lap like some errant pet. "They follow where I go, but they should not leave my guests uncomfortable."

His already pale eyes clouded over, as did the eyes of every spider that Jon could see, great or small. They hid back under the roots or climbed into the tree branches above…and what he had thought to be a long, ten foot branch shifted and retracted back under one of the Heartree's larger roots.

"There now." Daemon set his cane across his lap. "Better?"

"Much." Tormund's voice came out in an unusually high pitch.

"Now, I've heard what you have told my daughter and I know what she intends: a tradition that has existed for as long as Sheep has flown over Mother Skane." Daemon rubbed one hand along his sagging jawline. "And while I would usually consider it cruel of her…I believe that you might find it quite fair. You are in need of a dead monster to bring back to the Skagosi for their loyalty, yes? Then we shall show you to one…and all you need do in order to depart from Mother Skane unmolested is succeed in vanquishing it."

Jon immediately knew what this would have been for anyone else in his position: a death sentence. The monster plaguing Skagos did dwell on this island and it wasn't the Sheepstealer, just as his rider Rhae had proclaimed. That left to the imagination just what the scourge of Skagos truly was.

"If this beast dwells on Mother Skane," Jon said, "why have you not dealt with it long ago? I would imagine that a dragon could dispatch anything that would trouble a man."

"You would think so, yes." Daemon nodded, both brows arching upwards. "And maybe a Gravewalker will succeed where so many others have failed."

This was their original objective to begin with, so Jon did not find the ultimatum to be unfair. But there was still so much that he had to ask and the gnawing concern that their true prey may somehow be too much for even a dragon of Sheepstealer's size and age to deal with.

"Before we go on any monster hunts, I would ask for the hospitality of Ashcrown to be extended for a single night." Jon spoke humbly. "I may not suffer from hunger and fatigue as I once did, but my companions have been through a great deal."

"Ah, but of course." Daemon cracked his cane against the nearest root. "Your weapons may remain with you…as you don't strike me as the sort to raise steel against a Lord in his own home. Rhae, daughter, provide our guests with quarters and food."

Looking less than enthused by the command, Rhae none the less nodded. "At once, Father." She sharply gestured with her head. "This way. Don't stray."

Several Skani formed up around them, following Rhae out of the grove.

"So…Rhae." Davos spoke up after several minutes. "Short for Rhaenys?"

"No." Rhae replied flatly.

"Rhaenyra?"

"No."

"Rhaella-"

"My Name." Rhae spun around and brought the procession to a halt. "Is just. Rhae. Nothing else."

"My apologies, Lady Rhae." Davos replied placatingly. "I just couldn't help but note the similarity your name shares with certain members of the Targaryen dynasty. Between that and your obvious Valyrian appearance I find myself helpless against my own curiosity. The disappearance of Sheepstealer has remained one of the greatest mysteries of this and the last several generations, so I was curious to find out how he came to be here."

His eyes wandered to the sheathed sword clasped in her clenched and shaking hand. "As well as how one of the Targaryen ancestral weapons came to be in your possession."

Jon stared at the weapon before it hit him.

 _Dark Sister._

A slender blade built for the hands of a woman, black as midnight with a red ruby embedded in the guard. This was the sword wielded by Visenya Targaryen in the Conquest, and much later by Brynden 'Blood Raven' Rivers until his disappearance after joining the Night's Watch.

Rhae turned away from Davos. "Ask too many questions and you'll lose a few more fingers." She promised.

Jon motioned for Davos to hold his tongue and followed after the young woman. The time would come for answers to old questions to be dispensed, for now their priority had to be Baldric Magnar's task and the Weaver's trial. "Can you at least tell us of the monster that we are to face?"

"You'll learn all that you need to, Jon the Gravewalker." Rhae spat on the ground specifically in his path. "My father, the sentimental old fool that he is, will want to at least give you a fair chance at this. He'll answer all your questions after dawn."

Xxx

 **The North, the Hornwood**

The fertile lands of House Hornwood lay between the Dreadfort to the north-east and the city of Whiteharbour to the south. Included among them was the origin of their family sigil, name and earlier means of trade: the actual Hornwood. Here, packs of moose had sustained the earlier First Men settlers with furs, fat and meat. Antlers were made into tools and weapons before the advent of steel was carried across the Narrow Sea thousands of years ago. The Hornwoods of Hornwood still hunted moose, but only for special feasts where grain and vegetables would not be sufficient or to indulge in the whims of the occasional visiting lordling who wished a stuffed trophy to bring home to their mantle.

Or rather, they did hunt once. Now they were gone and Ramsay Bolton was supposedly the Lord of Hornwood in addition to being the heir of two other seats. The fate of Lady Donella and the rumoured survival of a bastard seed of the house had driven many retainers to take up arms in the name of King Stannis. Among the ranks of these insurgents were hunters and foragers who knew the woods like their own homes and took advantage of this, harassing any Bolton parties small enough to assure a significant chance of victory. They would unleash arrows in one or two volleys and flee back into the trees, leaving the heavily armoured men at arms to pursue on foot or maneuver their steeds through the heavy thicket.

Maraiya had found signs of their handiwork a few times, but not a whisper or sight of these insurgents, much to her chagrin. Her plan had relied heavily on running into the Stark-sympathetic Brotherhood of Hornwood, as these raiders had taken to calling themselves. She'd known that her disappearance from the family estate would prompt an immediate response and that the missing correspondence she'd taken with her would have Bolton men out looking for her as she crossed into their lands. There was little avoiding it, as she was not familiar enough with the terrain to navigate too far from regular roads and find her way back easily, else she would have forded the Broken Branch and travelled closer to Widow's Watch where the Flayed Men had few if any friends.

 _Especially after what they and their Frey friends did to poor Robin._ She thought, keeping a steady hand on the reins of the very horse named after the deceased heir of Widow's Watch.

In truth, she had never gone without an escort…anywhere beyond the confines of her family's seat. With either a guard or older cousin at her side, she was only allowed privacy within her chambers and occasionally the Godswood by the orders of her mother. This left her reliant on signposts and her memory of land marks within view of the road to tell her that she was on the right path.

The occasional sighting of a cluster of moose at least told her that she was in the right forest after two days of riding at a slow, sustainable pace. If the Boltons or whoever her mother sent in pursuit found her she wanted to be ready to bolt.

A gnawing sensation in her midsection reminded her of how long it had been since she'd last eaten. The rations that she'd been able to grab in her rush to escape had run out earlier that day, making her best hope an inn that she recalled passing during repeat visits to Hornwood or Widow's Watch.

The inn came into view soon, positioned at a crossroads that attracted travellers from Bolton, Flint and Manderly lands and subsequently prospered for such heavy traffic, growing two stories high and gathering the beginnings of what might one day become a whole town; huts and tents with some permanent structures set up in the days before the ground had hardened to the point of making further construction an ordeal. The denizens of this fledgling settlement were refugees from out west fleeing from Ironborn, or from up north fleeing the rumoured Wildling army that had crossed the Wall.

As she guided Robin onward she could see smallfolk hard at work, toiling as they would have in peacetime. Men dragged wood back from the surrounding trees to be collected as fuel for fire, women worked to make clothing and dinner from the remains of several moose while children either helped or enjoyed a snowball fight off to the edge of the enclosure where the Antler Way Inn was nestled.

"Where abouts do you ride from, m'lord?" Her eyes snapped ahead, realizing she'd been approached by several men, not soldiers but the settlement's defenders if their rudimentary weapons and armour were anything to go by; greybeards, the lot of them. If the coming winter was to be even worse than the present, these men would go out hunting and never return just as in the old days.

"Whiteharbour." She answered and cursed herself for not even attempting to disguise her voice.

The man leading the group realized his error and bowed his head slightly. "Apologies for my mistake, m'lady. The inn is packed, but Aleinn has sworn to make room for any woman or child passing through." He indicated several of the structures hugging the sides of the inn. "Stables are there, plenty of room at the moment. You can find a nice meal and a night's rest in relative safety here, but if you intend to linger beyond that you may be expected to help with chores around the camp."

"A fair compromise," Maraiya nodded. "Thank you."

She couldn't imagine how strained their circumstances must be even without the added weight of travellers stopping in to eat some of their food and move on. These self appointed wardens must have become accustomed to this if they were so quick to make their terms clear. Once she might have wished to remain and help anyways, but the fear of Bolton men finding her here erased any thought of that.

Maraiya paid to have Robin put in the stable and tipped the hands to take good care of him. It was the least the poor creature deserve after carrying her this far. She'd barely dismounted and gathered her belongings when one of the wardens' hands shot to the axe handle at their hip.

"I've never known women from Whiteharbour to furnish themselves with steel." He said, eyes fixed on the black and silver hilt that poked out from Maraiya's supplies. "Much less a blade that big."

Maraiya's hands froze, hovering over the straps binding her family's ancestral sword to the saddle bags. She'd almost forgotten about it, having never had cause to draw it or training to wield it effectively. Sentimentality had driven her to take it, sentimentality for the memory of a father who would be rolling in his grave if he could see what had become of Nightingale Hall in his absence.

"War is coming to these lands, sir. And even if it didn't there are bandits about." She reminded him. "I was given no choice but to make this journey, but I saw no reason not to at least carry something that would afford me some protection."

"I'll not begrudge you that." He nodded and slowly lowered his hand back to his side. "Just a warning: don't make trouble, and certainly don't bear that blade here." He turned and left, crunching through the snow until he'd faded among the crowds.

Maraiya made her way around to the front entrance after wrapping Nightfall enough to disguise it among her belongings. As she came to the doorway it was flung open and two forms stumbled out, interlocked in a struggle filled with all manner of expletives. She barely moved out of their way as one of the men knocked the other to the ground and laid into him, drawing blood before the sight of his foe's bloody and unconscious form satisfied him. He spat on the other man and climbed to his feet, bearing the sigil of the Flayed Man for Maraiya to see, sending a spike of ice shooting up her spine.

 _Boltons!_

The other man wore no armour and was clearly outmatched by the soldier, whose fellows trickled out through the doors as Maraiya carefully stepped away, keeping them to her front.

"Next time, I'll take more than your girl." The victor proclaimed as two more Bolton men pulled with them a struggling lass almost a decade Maraiya's junior, barely of age…with long dark hair and fair skin.

"Papa!" She cried as she was dragged away from the inn.

"You savages!" One of the wardens closest to the scene growled. "She's but a child!"

"And you're but a few seconds from ending your undoubtedly long and fulfilling life on a sad note, old man." The victor, clearly the ringleader of the group sneered. "You'll get this one back…after we're sure of who she is."

The man on the ground groaned, coming around to the edge of consciousness. "Sera…my Sera…"

"The Skinner will get the truth from her, one way or another." The man at arms gave him one last kick. "Let's move out!"

As the Bolton men moved off several of the wardens appeared tempted to attack, but were held back until the abductors and their victim were mounted on horses and rode off. When they left the camp Maraiya exhaled a breath she'd been holding and uttered a soft prayer for the girl's safe return.

"What was that about?" She asked as several people moved to help the beaten man.

"The Skinner, one of Lord Bolton's men, is searching for some woman." A young boy provided. "A noble from over by Whiteharbour. Dark hair, violet eyes-" This made Mariah cast her gaze to the ground and tilt her head towards her chest. "-like the dragons. They won't say why, but they keep taking anyone who they think is her."

"Or who they _say_ looks like her." A crone huffed and urged the young boy along. "Sera isn't the first to be taken from us, hopefully she won't be the first to not return. The Skinner marks the ones who aren't who he seeks so he don't mistake them again."

 _The Skinner? I can imagine how he earned such a name._

"How often do they come by here?" Maraiya asked.

"Hm…" The crone struggled. "I'd say once a week at the longest, thrice a day at worst."

It wasn't safe to stay here long.

Maraiya entered the inn to find it sullen and silent despite being packed as the wardens had described. There, she gave coin to a watery eyed innkeeper nursing a broken nose and purchased enough food to last a few days without weighing her down much. To keep up appearances she bought some drink and a light meal before making her way back out to the stable where Robin was being treated to the stablehands' fine care.

She hated to put an end to this pampering, but the chance of another Bolton patrol passing through and finding her was too great. As she opened her mouth to get their attention she felt a strong arm loop around her neck and tighten against her throat, cutting off her windpipe and lifting her off of the ground as she kicked and struggled.

"Oi!" One of the stablehands cried out.

"Keep out of this!" The man holding her hollered and threw Maraiya against the side of the stable, taking advantage of her struggle to draw in breath to rip her pack away as well as her hood. "Well there you are…thought you'd slip away?"

The man tugged Maraiya to her feet and slammed her against the wall again, holding her there with one hand at her throat. Now that she saw him she could not recall spotting him before, though he could have easily been hidden among the patrons inside the inn. He wore no colours, but one hardly needed to walk around in blue and pink to be the type of person she'd been hoping to avoid. A knife materialized in his other hand and cut away the claps of her cloak, letting it fall away as Maraiya gripped his wrist, trying and failing to wrench herself free.

"HELP!" One of the boys shrieked.

"I said keep out of it, you little shit!" The man pointed his knife at the two, who had taken up a rock and a pitchfork as weapons. "This one here is for the Skinner. Try and stop me you'll see him too!"

This threat appeared to cow the boys, who looked uncertainly between one another and Maraiya. She wouldn't have blamed them for running away.

In their moment of indecision Maraiya felt the man rip open her tunic and pull on a necklace held by a thin silver chain which shattered easily, leaving him holding an amethyst encrusted medallion with the Nightingale of House Bell upon it.

"Oh you're the one, alright." He grinned, baring blackening gums. "Gonna make me some coin once the Skinner gets 'old of- AH!" He squealed and clutched himself after Maraiya drove her knee up between his legs.

His grip on her throat fell slack, and Maraiya sucked in a breath and all but threw herself away from him, scrambling across the floor of the stable until a hand closed around her ankle. Her hands scrambled for anything to grab onto and found the hilt of Nightfall where it poked out of the layers she'd wrapped around it.

A heavy 'thunk' came from behind her before the grip on her ankle went slack. Maraiya accidentally pulled Nightfall from its scabbard and stumbled as she tried to adjust to the weight. Carrying it as part of her provisions or on Robin's saddle proved to be something entirely different from holding it in her hands, no matter how light Valyrian steel turned out to be.

Her assailant lay on the ground, groaning with both hands on his head while the stable hands stood over him, one holding up in both hands a rock that was stained red.

"Miss, are you okay?" The other asked, keeping his pitch fork pointed at the man as the heavy crunching of foot steps through snow grew close.

Coughing, Maraiya managed to nod and went to return Nightfall to its scabbard, hiding the unique telltale texture of the blade just before two of the wardens barged in, weapons in hand.

"What's this now?" One of them demanded, pointing his hatchet at the downed man.

"He attacked 'er, grandfather!" The stone wielder responded promptly. "Threw er' around, cut off her cloak and tore at 'er tunic."

The second of the wardens gave Maraiya a glance as she rubbed her throat, still coughing every little while. He saw where her tunic had been ripped open to show the barest hints of her bosom, the medallion on the ground close at hand and the cut cloak left in the mud and feces next to it.

"Go find Banor." The stablehand's grandfather commanded. "Tell him we've a raper to deal with."

"Not a-" The attacker had regained his senses enough to hear what was said as the stablehands ran outside. "Not a raper, fuckin' fool!" He turned onto his side and pointed accusingly at Maraiya. "This cunt here is Maraiya Bell. She's wanted by the Warden of the North's command!"

The older man snorted and stomped on his back once, forcing him flat onto his stomach again. "And I suppose in the name of making sure, you decided to strip her of any attire to avoid confusion?" He spat on the man's blood soaked head. "This isn't the first time one of your ilk has pulled this just because a girl matched the description. It'll be your cock or the Wall for this, you godless shite."

"Look!" The man pointed desperately at the medallion before Maraiya could stow it out of sight. "That has the sigil of House Bell on it! Just look!"

The second warden approached Maraiya and raised one hand expectantly. "M'lady, if I may?"

To deny him would be to confirm the man's accusations. To comply would be to do the exact same. Maraiya looked frantically between him, Robin and the open doorway to freedom.

 _So close…_

What would they do when they found out? Would they hand her over, possibly to get the young girl Sera back unharmed? Or maybe the bounty called for her head to roll as soon as possible..

Maraiya shakily held the medallion up, using her other hand to try and pull the ripped fabric of her tunic back together and preserve her modesty. The second warden took and examined it, watching as the amethysts glittered in the torch light.

"Maybe she is." He confirmed with a nod.

 _No. No!_

Maraiya braced for the worst, going through options ranging from grabbing Nightfall and trying to fight her way out to setting the whole stable on fire and escaping in the confusion. She wouldn't put stock in any plan of hers working, but she had to try with every last breath in her to reach Stannis Baratheon's army. Her father would not have been this helpless, this much she remembered of the powerful, nigh-untouchable man who had gone off to war only to return in a box with his sword and cloak laid over it.

 _Papa, please forgive me…_

"However." He set the medallion back in Maraiya's hand and closed her fingers around it. "Who can tell one noble house's pretty bird from another?"

Maraiya's attacker swore and tried to rise only to be pushed almost face down into something fetid and likely freshly dropped by Robin in his short stay. "You whoresons! When the Boltons hear of this-"

"The Boltons?" The older warden rumbled and reached down to grab a handful of the man's receding, greasy hair. "We were for the Hornwoods. My own sons served at Castle Hornwood. Bolton's bastard murdered our lady, sacked her castle, left my grandson orphaned and now dares to call himself lord of our lands. The Bolton can choke on their flaying knives. You should've acted before your friends left." He nodded to Maraiya. "I might've surrendered this young lass to twelve men-at-arms to protect my flock, but one wretch like you?"

He raised his hatchet overhead. "I know exactly how to handle your kind."

The blade came down, silencing a panicked cry and splitting the man's skull open. Maraiya clapped her hands over her mouth and backed up against the nearest wall, unable to tear her eyes away as the man's eyes slowly rolled back into his head and his limbs twitched erratically. A strangled noise escaped from his wide open mouth before he exhaled his last breath and fell limp, save for the occasional small spasm.

The warden left his axe in the man's head and looked to Maraiya. "You need to ride fast, Lady Bell." He said. "This one-" he nudged the corpse with his boot, "-had a friend who shadowed him all night. Now I know why they rode out of here in a hurry a few minutes ago. The flayers will be back soon."

Maraiya felt her eyes water before she turned and emptied her dinner out onto the floor. A hand on her back and another on her arm guided her over to Robin and helped her up into the saddle. Her cloak was draped around her like a blanket, though with the clasp broken a single gust of wind would be all that was needed to blow it away. Her other provisions were hung back in place.

"I need to tell them that you killed their man and rode out on your own." The warden informed her with a countenance of remorse. "I'm sorry, but I can't have them take their revenge on these good people. Do you understand?"

Maraiya tugged her cloak tightly around her shoulders and nodded numbly, afraid that if she opened her mouth she'd expel what little her stomach had managed to retain.

"Good." He put the reins in her hands after guiding Robin close to the doorway. "You'll have a head start on them. Use it and fly. Fly anywhere but here." He slapped Robin's hindquarters and sent the horse into a gallop that almost rode down several curious bystanders who had gotten close to the stable.

Soon the stable was far behind her, then the entire camp and the Antler Way Inn vanished behind a veil of trees and snow. Maraiya felt the blistering winds freeze her tears solid as she rode away, crying. The image of the man was burned into the background of her mind: the hatchet buried into his head, the sounds he made in his final moments, the stench that arose as his bowels spilled out. Her education had taught her long ago that there was nothing glorious about war, and now that war had come to the North she was to be given a reminder of that to be drilled into her skull for the rest of her life.

 _Keep riding. Need to keep riding._ She clenched her hands around the reigns tightly and let her cloak fall away as she crossed a bridge, leaving it to fall into the shallow stream below.

 _You are a Bell of Nightingale Hall._ Her father had told her once long ago, before he rode off to die. _It does not matter that you are of the fairer sex, you will one day have to serve in defence of our liege lords as I do today. Remember our words when your fear begins to overtake you, my child. Remember them well and wield it as a weapon. For as in the days of the Long Night we shall charge ahead of all others…Into the Night._

 _Into the Night._ She repeated it aloud, softly at first and then louder. "Into the Night!"

And as darkness fell around her, she repeated these words over and over.

Later, she would look back on that instance and wish she'd had time to thank the young stablehand.

Before dawn came, her cloak would be found several miles downstream to the west by the company of the First Sword of the Free Blades and the Big Bucket of Clan Wull.

Xxx

 **End of Chapter**


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Web of Secrets

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

 **I would like to acknowledge a mistake I made concerning ASOIAF lore. The valyrian steel sword Nightfall belongs to the House of Harlaw, and I've mistakenly given House Bell one of the same name. I will not be changing this, but I shall make sure to give House Harlaw a worthy mention as well as incorporate their possession of Nightfall into the story of how it came to be wielded by House Bell.**

Xxx

 **Chapter Fifteen: Web of Secrets**

 **Skane, Ashcrown**

Jon hadn't slept a wink since departing for Skagos.

As a Gravewalker, he no longer required it, yet he found peace in dreams where he found himself entirely aware of his slumbering state. In these dream realms he could shape the terrain and events to fit his whims. He had enjoyed these dreams, taking himself back to the days of his childhood in Winterfell, the time that he'd taken for granted praying for the day that he could go to freeze and die honourably like any seed of a Stark was expected to do. He relived sparring sessions with Robb and Theon, riding with Arya and teaching her to use the bow in the secrecy of the Godswood, finding Ghost…

And yet he was always torn from these personal heavens by Catelyn Stark, who still vexed him in death. She was not present where she was supposed to be, not as he had recalled. No matter how hard he worked to craft his dreams to include her, if only to allow himself to be completely fooled into believing this to be reality by making it entirely authentic, she would always be at a distance and facing away.

In a corner, atop a wall, kneeling before her hollow idols…and she never once looked at him until he'd grown sick of this and approached her.

On the night before departing from East-Watch he confronted her in the recreation of the humble sept built for her by Ned Stark's command. He tried to speak to her, tried to incite her to rise and dismiss him from her presence with the same cold anger she'd displayed for all of his life. Eventually he began to destroy her sept, condemning her for any number of crimes. And yet she stayed there, kneeling with her head bowed…

When he could stand it no longer, he resorted to grabbing her by the shoulder.

What he saw next had kept him from finding sleep ever since. He'd pondered attempting it during the stay at Kingshouse, again during the voyage of the _Sea Dragon_ and now found himself nestled in a hammock under the stars, trying to close his eyes and will himself to sink into the depths of his mind…

And the final sight of his last dream flashed to the forefront, driving him back to the surface.

Growling, Jon rolled out of the hammock and took stock of the quarters given to his company. A small abode close to the Heartree dominating Ashcrown, it was another of the structures allegedly sung into shape by the Children of the Forest, or so the neighbours would insist. Tormund had taken to peeking at every shadow in paranoia, seeking out the scuttling shapes of the Weaver's many skins that kept watch over the town, only falling to sleep after imbibing the contents of his flask to calm his nerves…and then repeating this with the contents of Davos' flask, much to the Hand's discontent. Now both men slumbered in hammocks of their own, one emitting a continuous snoring that would have kept half of Winterfell awake.

"I'm almost certain that at least one of the tales of Gravewalkers ended with the hero going mad because he'd forgotten how to sleep, something which you may find to be essential for the wellbeing of your mind." The Stranger drawled, lounging at a window sill and gazing out over the still glowing city spread across the crater floor. "Are you still so resentful of your father's fish-wife that you allow her to deny you this?"

"Before, I would forget anything I dreamt as soon as I awoke." Jon laced up his boots. "Now I lack that luxury."

"If you will not sleep, then at least make use of your wakefulness." The Stranger demanded, looking back at him now. "From that Heartree we can travel to any Godswood where a Heartree either stands or has been awakened. We could be in Winterfell, take the Bolton usurpers' heads and be gone before any realized it. Instead we are running from one task to another when the battle could be joined any day now."

"And what if I only succeed in getting Sansa killed?" Jon countered before lowering his voice, mindful of his companions' slumber. "I will not lose anymore family. Until I've learned more of my powers, truly mastered them…I will not risk it. We are also here to gather allies for Stannis. The stronger he grows, the more the Realm will be prepared."

"Unless his fire worshipping whore interferes." The Stranger spat. "I still say you should have cut her head off and thrown it into the sea, just to be safe."

Jon moved to the window sill to join his ghostly companion. "What did the Faith of the Red God do that you despise them so?" He asked. "I am no supporter of their practice of burning men and women alive-"

"Add children to that, both of man and the forest." The Stranger cut him off, eyes sizzling brightly with a barely constrained fury. "They are blind, willfully ignorant, unforgivably arrogant and only spread conflict where they go. They care only for one thing: to see their own interpretation of the Long Night eventually be repeated so they can somehow feel vindicated in believing their god is the only true deity. And then they can go on to continue forcing others to adopt their beliefs."

Jon stared at him, recognizing how the familiar facial features twisted sorrowfully. "They took someone from you, didn't they?"

"They took _many_ from me." The Stranger hissed. "I can't remember their names, their faces…but I know that it was by the hands of these cinder worshipping zealots that I suffered greatly in my life. As did many others before and after me. The Andals were after my time and their failures to conquer my family's lands were hilarious; for that reason alone I consider them only second in terms of being a pestilence."

The broad strokes of the Bright Stranger's story were beginning to paint the outline of a grim picture. Jon was almost afraid to find out which story from Old Nan that this man's life would most resemble.

Jon finished clothing himself and vaulted through the window, darting along twisting branches and roofs of sung huts. "If the Priestess does anything, I will consider removing her discreetly." He promised. "I don't want to do anything that might compromise my alliance with Stannis."

"The Storm King will accept any advantage he can get." The Stranger said dismissively, his form partly folded with Jon's and matching his movements. "I would think that substituting a red priestess who needs live burnings to fuel her spells for a Gravewalker who can produce more immediate results would entice him."

"And turn all converted in his army against him." Jon pointed out before leaping down onto a path that led towards the Heartree, now unoccupied save for the slumbering form of Sheepstealer.

"Then simply cut them down and raise them as our own shamblers!" The Stranger snapped in exasperation.

"I won't raise the dead." Jon shook his head, firmly keeping to this stance on the subject of how closely his powers could replicate that of the Others. "I will make use of any Wights raised by the enemy, but I will not desecrate the dead myself."

"The dead don't give a damn about your honour, boy!"

"It's not about honour!" Jon lowered his voice again. "It's…about fighting for the living without becoming the thing that I fight against."

The Stranger's silhouette split from him, recoiling as if struck in the face. His pale eyes were wide circles for a short moment before they closed. "…perhaps I am quick to forget some things even as I recall others." He admitted. "It is one thing to discard what feels right to embrace what is necessary. It is another entirely to discard what feels right to embrace what is convenient. One offers an arduous but steady path, the other is a steep and slippery slope."

Jon entered the grove to find many of the Weaver's skins perched in webs adorning the branches overhead. He spotted more movement of limbs longer than he was tall among the pale, twisting roots of the Heartree. Sheepstealer appeared unbothered by any of this, sleeping contently just as Jon longed to.

"And one is much harder to turn away from once you take your first step on it." Jon added. "That is why I can't simply abandon everything that I know, ere I become just another glorified murderer prancing about under the banner of another King."

One of Sheepstealer's eyes opened, and the dragon slowly turned his head over so that his right eye was directly facing Jon, sticking out brightly against the dark backdrop of the veil of webs surrounding the enclosure. Slowly, the dragon shifted one of his forelegs, allowing a head of pale hair to peek out.

"Do you always talk to yourself?" Rhae asked, brushing some stray strands out of her eyes.

Jon cursed under his breath and delve into the Wraith World, seeing Sheepstealer as a form that shone bright blue…utterly encompassing and hiding the smaller form of Rhae. "…Do you always sleep with your dragon?"

"Sheep gets lonely." Rhae defended, patting one of Sheepstealer's many spikes arrayed along his head. "He used to have lots of friends who would stay close to him at night. Then he had to fly up here and for a long time people were too scared to approach him, save his rider. That changed after some years. The children would stay day and night if they could, but you can imagine how well their parents might receive that idea."

The ancient dragon emitted a low rumble and leaned his head towards Rhae.

"I never thought the world would see a dragon again." Jon said, his sight fixed on the sight of such a powerful creature behaving so…affectionately. "Some used to say that the last of this world's magic went with the last of the Targaryen dragons."

Sheepstealer's eyes snapped back open and glared at Jon, the low rumbling turning into a more audible growl.

"Targaryens." Rhae spat on the ground and patted Sheepstealer. "Fuck the lot of 'em. Backwards bunch'a inbred cunts. Sheep was never theirs."

Conscious of Sheepstealer's apparent understanding of Common Tongue, Jon double checked to make sure that the Fist of the First Men was still at his hip before speaking. "Was he not hatched from one of their egg clutches?"

Information on Sheepstealer's origins were vague, marking his birth at some eighty years before the Dance of Dragons in the time of Jaeherys the Conciliator. The records stated that he had hatched on Dragonstone, after the Cannibal with no comparison in age to the Grey Ghost one way or another. The Maesters, usually so diligent in recording every minute detail, had erred in keeping track of most topics concerning dragons, being inconsistent at best and ignorant at worst.

"That what the books say?" Rhae asked dryly. "Do you also believe that seven gods crowned Hugor of the Hill, gave him the perfect wife and forty-four perfect sons each with a perfect suit of armour?"

Jon scowled. "I was merely asking. The earliest mentions of Sheepstealer place him on Dragonstone, so if you have some alternate source that contests this then by all means…"

"Sheep was there before those inbred fucks ever set foot on the Dragonmont." Rhae boasted. "Same with the Cannibal and the Ghost."

The Bright Stranger broke his silence. "She does not speak deceptively, yet what she believes and what is fact may not entirely be one and the same, unless…" He bid Jon to ask something in his place.

"How could you possibly know this to be true?" He inquired. "You have lived on one small island, and I've found no signs of a library or any literature that could have passed this knowledge onto you. How came you by these alleged facts?"

"The same way I learn everything about the outside world." Rhae answered evasively.

"Which is?"

"Not one ounce of your business, Jon the Gravewalker."

The sharp crack of wood against wood made them stop and look to the side…to find one large veil of webbing being pulled aside by several hound sized spiders to reveal the Weaver as he emerged from a concealed path, guiding himself with the base of his weirwood staff. "There is no call for such rudeness, daughter." He chastised. "Although I must agree with her, Master Jon. We are not so quick to surrender our closest secrets, even to Gravewalkers."

"Father, it's almost dawn." Rhae hurried to his side and helped him along. "Why are you up?"

"Because our guest is so restless that I felt there was no point in making him wait." The Weaver replied before he was helped to ease himself down into a seated position against Sheepstealer's side. "Your companions will be up shortly and notice your absence. It may be best that you all begin your task before the rest of Ashcrown is roused, lest fate sees fit to interfere."

"Then will you tell me what I need to know?" Jon asked.

"I did just make a point that we don't divulge secrets so easily." Daemon reminded him, raising one end of his staff to point at Jon.

"And your daughter made a point of assuring me that you would not send me and my company out ignorant of what we face." Jon countered.

The Weaver tilted his head to one side, his sightless eyes gazing sightlessly upwards with a thoughtful countenance. "Huh, I suppose she did." He nodded, setting his staff back down. "Well, far be it from me to make my Rhae into a liar! So be it then. In the interest of the ongoing safety of Mother Skane, I shall overturn that little policy."

He held up one hand to show his index finger and thumb nearly pinched together, with not an inch of thin air between them. "Just a little. Just what you need to- er... _defeat_ this menace."

 _At long last._

Jon found himself somewhere to sit that was not crawling with the Weaver's many extensions. "The sooner we slay this beast, the better." He agreed. "What manner of creature is it?"

Daemon set his staff across his lap and tilted his head back, illuminating his face with a shaft of moon light that slipped through the canopy overhead. "Fire and shadow made flesh. A being that was old when the oldest empire was born. Long ago it came here, fleeing from a land I could not speak the name of and waged war upon Mother Skane, killing or driving off nine for every ten and enslaving the rest."

 _Carry us from this island of death…_

"For many generations it ruled here, the Skani its toys and slaves to play with and torment on a whim." Daemon slowly raised his staff and tapped it against Sheepstealer's scales. "Until…she came…she and Sheep…"

 _Nettles._

"They flew down from the sky and brought battle to it. For many days they fought with fang and fire and claw and blade. Mother Skane burned, and those who remained sheltered where they could and cried out for an end."

Jon felt lighter, almost like a breeze would pick him up. The world turned on its axis, yet the figure of Daemon the Weaver remained stationary against the distortions. Around him he could hear distant cries of terror, the roaring of flames and the fury of a great battle. It almost felt like he was there, separated by the thinnest membrane from a clash of giants that had rocked Skane to its foundations.

"In the end it was a stalemate that would see no end…until the Children arose from hiding and helped to deliver the final blow." The Weaver stated. "The beast fled to its lair, to the Blackstone Fortress its slaves had built as its seat, and since then Sheep has guarded over Mother Skane against its return. The monster departs, seeking plunder and to sate its wrath, and yet it never strays far or for long."

Jon shook his head and placed one hand to his temple. "Why hasn't it been dealt with long ago?" He asked. "Sheepstealer drove it off. Could he not kill it?"

"That…presents too great a risk to Sheep." Daemon answered, rubbing one hand against Sheepstealer's flank. "He is old, Jon Snow. Older than almost any dragon that drew breath when Valyria burned. Dragons grow stronger with each year that passes, but there comes a time when even they feel the onslaught of old age. The Heartree of Ashcrown nourishes him, as it does all of us, granting him enough strength that he could defeat this foe. But beyond its reach…there is simply too great of a risk that he would fall and leave us defenceless once more. The monster does not suffer mortality…and now neither do you."

So this was why the Weaver proposed the trial by deed: one deathless creature to dispatch another without risking their guardian.

"I still need to know more." Jon insisted. "I need to know how it fights, what its weaknesses are, anything!"

"Only one alive today can show you that." Daemon handed his staff off to Rhae and beckoned Jon closer. "Come."

Feeling Sheepstealer's gaze boring into him, Jon reluctantly stepped up to the Weaver's side where the older man gripped him by the wrist and raised his arm, hand open. Sheepstealer shifted and brought his head around, close enough that Jon could feel hot air through his glove and sleeves.

"Meet his eyes." Daemon commanded of him. "And you shall see just how different our Sheep is from the vaunted wyrmlings of Aenar's progeny."

The golden discs of Sheepstealer's eyes disappeared, rolling back into the dragon's skull.

Jon felt a pressure bearing down on him from all directions at once, like the crushing depths of the ocean itself was now upon him.

 _You have to be fucking kidding me._

That was Jon's last thought before the world was torn out from under his feet, leaving him flailing head over heels in darkness. He eventually slammed down against cold, hard ground and felt rain pouring down upon him, part of a torrent that overfilled nearby reservoirs in the rocky terrain. He stood now in the shadow of a great, looming citadel, stark black against the flash of lightning. Spires twisted higher than any tower he'd ever seen, reaching like the hands of many a giant towards the sky.

And deep within the confines of this inhuman place, he felt something shift as if disturbed from its slumber by his arrival.

Its eyes were what first appeared, piercing shadow and the veil of rainfall to strike Jon. He was rooted in place as it grew closer, heralded by a steadily growing hiss. A wave of warmth struck him, but offered no comfort against the torrential downpour. Instead he felt colder than ever while the air itself mocked him, growing hotter with each step that shook the earth.

Then he saw it turn its eyes towards the sky. Far overhead, a winged form was exposed, diving out from the storm clouds. The Sheepstealer in his haydays unfurled his wings and let loose with a shriek…

And the thing opened its mouth, which emitted a fiery glow like that of a furnace and replied with its own thunderous retort.

Now Jon beheld it in its full terror…and truly despaired. What he beheld was something not of this world, a pen entity that could not be compared to anything he had witnessed or confronted. The Others and their Wights, inhuman as they were, remained at least distantly similar enough to carry a will comparable to that of man. But this monstrosity…it was beyond such infantile categorization.

 _Fire and shadow made flesh._ He now knew that none of what he'd heard had been boast or embellishment. _And I am to slay this thing? It cannot be done._

For if the Sheepstealer in his prime could not do it…what hope did he have?

Xxx

 **The North, Winterfell**

Sansa was not permitted much in the way of leisure, but not even her husband or his father would deny her a chance to pray to the gods. In the earliest hours of the morning, after enduring being washed and dressed at the hands of women who had experienced her husband's eccentricities first hand and bore the scars of their trauma, she was accompanied to the Godswood by Reek. Here, the damage that befell Winterfell was not as obvious.

The Ironborn had supposedly made efforts to burn it, yet beyond the outermost edges of the enclosure bearing blackened stretches of bark there was no sign that this sanctuary had endured any harm. Sansa came to the reflective black pools and the Heartree at the core of the Godswood, its carved face staring sightlessly at her as she walked with some assistance and came to settle on her knees before it.

Reek retreated once he was sure she was seated and seemed to shrink himself into as small a mass as possible, recoiling from the accusative stare that he envisioned. When he passed to close to this wood he could hear the whispers on every breath of wind. Only the command of his lord and master could compel him to tread here.

 _Traitor…oathbreaker…murderer…_

For the only thing he feared more than the gods was Ramsay Bolton.

Sansa brushed one hand across the snow in front of her, taking a shuddering breath as she struggled to find anything to say.

"I never worshipped you." She whispered. "I never believed in you. Not once." She shook her head. "My mother, she raised me in the light of the Seven. I was tutored by a Septa, taught foremost to impress and charm so that I might be taken as wife and run my husband's household."

The image of Sandor Clegane's brutally burnt face entered her mind.

 _Little bird…_

"I lived for a fairy tale." She sniffed and blinked away tears. "I scorned my sister for not sharing this. I scorned my bas-" She almost bit her own tongue. "…I scorned my brother, for no crime of his doing. I scorned this land that I called home, eager to race away and find a prince to make me into his future queen."

She inhaled sharply, trying to keep herself composed and finding her strength waning.

"I abandoned my family." These words barely made it past her lips. "I abandoned my pack."

 _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives…_

"And now my pack is gone." She reached out and brushed a hand across the carved weirwood. "If ever you would hear me…then I beg this of you- not for myself, but for Jon. For Rickon. For Bran. For-" It hurts to speak her name. "-for Arya. Where ever they all are, let them find each other."

Around her, the silence of the Godswood was broken by a stray breeze that twisted its way between branch and trunk.

"Take me instead of them." She pleaded. "Enough people have died for me. Take me and let them live."

 _The pack…_ A whisper from everywhere and nowhere made Reek now his head and whimper, head clutched in his mutilated hands. _…survives._

This was not the end. More voices, murmurs and distant calls drifted throughout the usually silent enclosure. Sansa turned, expecting to find the figures of Bolton men, either on patrol or sent to find her by her husband's command.

There were none, and the Godswood looked darker and felt larger than ever before.

 _You shall fly…_

 _And not a soul to hear…_

 _And…she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose._

 _You'll be fighting their battles forever…_

The world fell away. The trees, the wind, the snow, the cowering Reek…all fell into darkness.

Sansa saw her father standing alone, then realized it wasn't her father at all.

"Jon!" She tried to cry out to him.

He could not hear her. Her voice echoed outwards into eternity as she tried to go to him, yet every step she took felt like it moved her a hundred paces further away.

"Jon, stay away!" She called. "Save yourself!"

From the shadows arose flames. Jon was facing her, that much she could tell from the light of surrounding embers. One hand rested on the pommel of a sword at his side, his hair was bound back in a northern style that made him look too much like their father and a scar passed over his left eye. He was adorned in dark armour and cloth, looking every inch the ideal Stark that she remembered from her childhood.

And then…great wings unfurled from behind him. Sansa stumbled over her own feet and barely caught herself, gazing at her sibling's silhouette as he slowly turned, revealing that it was not from him that these appendages originated…but from something that stood on the far side of him. He bared his blade against it, standing as if to keep this unseen threat away from her.

"Jon?!" Sansa reaches out towards him as he charged to meet it, diving through the pyre with his sword clasped in both hands. "JON, DON'T!"

Sansa's eyes shot open and she sucked in a quick breath of cold air. The world as she remembered it was whole once more. No fire or darkness, just the silent and serene sanctuary of the Godswood. She was pressed against the Heartree's side, laying against it with her cloak drawn over her like a blanket. Reek sat a few feet away, shivering in the cold with his back to her.

"…Theon?"

Reek cringed and shook his head, whimpering. "Reek, Reek…" He whispered, hugging himself. "No Theon…no Theon."

A shaft of sunlight was slowly stretching across the ground nearby. The sun was rising, meaning she had to have been there for a while now, at least several hours.

Was any of what she had just seen real? Somehow she could not bring herself to dismiss the vision of Jon in the flames as a product of her dreams.

Somehow…sitting here in the sight of her father's gods, Sansa felt more at peace than she had in years.

"Be safe, Jon." She closed her eyes and laid back against the Heartree. "Where ever you are."

Xxx

 **The North, Hornwood**

She'd ridden far beyond the northern edge of the Hornwood by the time dawn came. Without her cloak she found it harder to fight off the blistering cold, but her foresight to dress for the tail end of fall had paid off and kept her extremities from falling off. Thick layers, refrain from any exerting activity that might lead her to perspire and careful consumption of the provisions from the Antler Way Inn helped to keep her body at a steady temperature.

 _Every moment you're out in the cold is another that your body's fighting to keep you alive, Mari. So keep your head about you and make sure to keep these little grains of wisdom in mind: stay dry, stay fed and stay out of the open if you aren't on the move. If you've got someone with you, don't be shy about getting close so you can all share in the warmth._

Maraiya sighed and patted Robin. "Wish I had a coat like yours, boy."

There was a list of wishes she had: that her cousin Adrian was here with his wealth of knowledge in surviving the wilderness, that his sister Sasha had been able to come with her so that she at least wasn't left alone with nothing but snow capped trees and hills in all directions for company.

When the sun peek over the horizon, it slowly revealed the sprawling, rugged lands of the North. The sight brought Maraiya to a halt to take in the grand sight, which took her back to the last memories she'd had with her father…just a little over twenty three years ago before the Rebellion. He'd taken her to tour the North, from Widow's Watch to Sea Dragon Point and down to Flint's Finger. Their time in the Dreadfort had been short and tense, but every other castle she'd been to had felt like it held an air of magic about it, each unique from the last.

And right here, with a tributary of the White Knife glittering under a red morning sky off to the south-west and the ruins of a nameless ring fort off to the east, Maraiya had been raised up in her father's arms so she could see it all as she did now.

 _Untamed and savage, they call these lands, Mari. Pah! The North is rough and apathetic, but she's no more savage than the deserts of Dorne, the mountains of the Vale or the churning seas. It reminds us to be thankful for all that we have, to treasure it and not become engrossed with wealth and excess. Respect the North and its ways, Mari, and you may walk these lands from one end to the other with little to fear._

Robin raised his head up, ears tilted forward and his entire body locking up. It was the posture of a horse that sensed danger.

"What's wrong boy?" Maraiya looked around, holding tightly to the reins. "What is it?"

Then she heard it: the heavy pounding of hooves.

Maraiya pressed her legs into Robin's sides, leaned forward and hissed. "Fly, Robin!"

With a whinny, Robin charged ahead. After covering close to a league across the great expanse she dared to look over her shoulder and saw a great cloud of loose white powder. At its head was a row of riders in blue and pink colours.

The Boltons had found her.

 _Gods old and new, protect me._

Her only hope lay in reaching Widow's Watch. From here it was only another half day's ride to Flint lands. The only way she could realistically last long enough was to tire her pursuers out and lose them. A large stretch of woodland further north seemed the best option, and soon she left behind the large stretch of flat ground for the more uneven terrain broken by root and rock.

Robin was accustomed to such obstacles, having been raced and ridden through the woods around her home countless times. The Bolton riders could not say the same, judging from how they quickly fell behind, having to slow down and navigate more carefully without steady ground underfoot.

"That's good Robin." She breathed. "We'll lose them."

Then she heard the barking of hounds and felt her next breath catch in her throat. From ahead, a number of shapes broke through the underbrush and charged straight for her. Robin shrieked and reared up, sending Maraiya tumbling from her saddle. In the last moment before she slipped she was able to grab onto Nightfall while trying to find anything to cling to, tearing it away from the saddle. By luck she avoided hitting anything that would cause injury and was simply left winded.

Robin's fearful whinnying faded along with the calls of the hounds. Maraiya turned over and caught sight of them vanishing through the trees, her Robin keeping just ahead of them for the time being.

"Well look at this, boys."

A man emerged from behind one of the trees close to where the hounds had emerged. He was of slender build, wearing a long dark coat with the sigil of the Boltons sewn onto the tunic underneath…where he kept an array of knives around his waist. His smile was the kind she had seen too many times before, the sort she had come to expect from those who took perverse pleasure in things that the gods frowned on. Other men joined him, no less than ten.

None of them wore proper armour or wielded the weapons of soldiers. They seemed more like huntsmen, with their bows and knives and…hunting hounds…

 _Bastard's Boys._

The men-at-arms infamous for their ties to Ramsay Bolton, said to be in his company more often than any others in service of the Dreadfort.

"It looks to me like we've caught ourselves a bird that's flown her cage." The man said.

From behind, Maraiya heard the riders that she'd managed to evade approach. There were six of them, all proper men-at-arms in boiled leather and chainmail.

The slender man waved them down. "Proper job well done, lads. We'll take her from here." He gestured with one hand and two of his men approached.

Maraiya tugged Nightfall from its scabbard, inciting a round of laughter from the Bastard's Boys.

"None 'o that now." The slender man wagged one finger as his men slowly spread out and surrounded her. "We've been told to keep you untouched if we can, but if you go swingin' that 'round my boys might forget that."

Maraiya tried to keep them at a distance, but her swings with Nightfall were clumsy and uncoordinated, serving more to amuse than anything else. Finally she struck something solid and found, much to her dismay, that during a blind swing she'd cut deep into the trunk of a tree, leaving Nightfall stuck fast. The men nearest to her pounced, ripping her off her feet and pinning her arms to her side. She kicked out and struck something, eliciting a pained grunt which earned her jarring blow across the face.

"Easy, you lackwit." The slender man grabbed the offender by the wrist and held him back while the rest worked to restrain Maraiya, binding her with ropes. "You do anything she won't heal from and I'll give your skin to Lord Bolton."

"What makes this one so special?" The man demanded, wincing as he felt where he'd been hit just under the eye. "We've skinned a dozen whores like her."

"Those ones weren't highborn." The slender man replied. "Call the Girls back, we've got what we want."

One of the men sent out a shrill whistle and waited. A few moments of silence broken only by Maraiya's muffled cries and grunts as she fought tooth and nail passed before he repeated this. By now they should have at least heard the hounds at a distance, yet the forest was silent…

With an irate grunt, the slender man pointed. "Go get 'em."

Two of the men broke off, following the hoof and paw prints away from the clearing. By now Maraiya was bound, gagged and being dragged towards the horses.

"Take this one to the Dreadfort and make sure that Steelshanks knows she isn't to be touched." The slender man commanded. "And that fancy sword better be with her when Lord Bolton sends for her."

"Better get it out then." One of the dismounted riders marched up to Nightfall and tugged it free of the tree trunk…which groaned and creaked before it fell over entirely. The other riders gripped their mounts by the reins and kept them under control as it crashed down in front of them.

"Ey! Careful!"

"Daft bastard."

"Eh, shut yer mouths." The lead rider held up Nightfall, admiring the Valyrian steel blade. "So this is Valyrian-make? It's so light…"

"And not for you." The slender man reminded him. "So don't get any ideas."

"Ah quit yer moanin', I know better than to cross Lord Roose." The rider grabbed Nightfall's scabbard and slid it in. "It's that mad son o' his I'd be worried about. You're one o' his, right? The Skinner?"

"Only as loyal to him as his father commands." The Skinner responded. "And it's his father whose orders I'm relayin' to you."

Maraiya gave a cry of protest as a man began to lift her up across his mount. Before he could finish his back arched and his mouth opened up in a strangled groan before he tumbled forward, letting Maraiya fall back onto the cold ground. When she looked over she saw him laying face down…with an arrow in his back. Another man who had been prepared to help him in securing her to the horse opened his mouth to call out, but only released a gurgle as another arrow planted itself in his throat.

The Skinner spotted this and swore. "AMBUSH!" He hollered before more darts flew out of the trees.

"WINTERFELL!" A roar went out before a large figure crashed into view, swinging a large axe which split a man's skull down the middle.

He was followed closely by several other figures who took the Bolton men by surprise. The Skinner drew a hand-axe and a large knife and leapt into the fray with a snarl, managing to catch one of the attackers' swords and force it down into the ground before slicing their throat open. His victory didn't last long, for the next one to come at him, a foreigner judging by their appearance, expertly knocked his axe aside and jabbed a long, thin sword directly through his neck. They didn't even stay to finish him off, letting the Skinner collapse to his knees, his hands clasped to the wound as he tried desperately to stem the flow of blood.

Maraiya, bereft of the free use of her arms, pushed herself away from the fight with her legs. She looked back to see the Bolton men, surrounded and outnumbered on top of being taken by surprise, get whittled down one by one.

In the chaos of the fight she saw two combatants stand out from the rest: the large axe fighter who had been the first into the clearing, easily chopping cutting men down with a single swing and sending heads or limbs flying; and a more agile man whose blade, which looked fragile enough to snap against armour, spun and jabbed with such precision that he seemed to find each weak spot or opening in his foe's armour.

Some of the Bolton men tried to flee, but were either brought down by arrows in the back or were met by more fighters waiting to pick off strays. The last man left standing turned out to be the one who had taken hold of Nightfall, using the Valyrian steel blade to great effect in cutting through armour like butter. He ended up taking down three who had more than likely been unprepared to face a weapon of such quality in the hands of a lowly man-at-arms before the agile fighter with his slender blade stepped forward.

With a roar, the Bolton man swung only to miss by inches as his opponent angled his body clear of Nightfall's path. Almost seeming to dance as he moved around the man, the agile fighter cut him across the back of the knee and sent him down onto all fours, howling.

"That's the last of 'em!" The large axe-fighter boomed.

"Almost." Another pointed to the rider, who was relieved of Nightfall.

"Leave him for now." The agile fighter commanded, picking up Nightfall and examining it before his eyes…his dark wine-red eyes settled on her. "We have someone more worthy of our attention."

Maraiya tried to push herself further away as the man approached. He set Nightfall down and closed the distance between them with a leisurely gait. He knelt down and grasped her by the ropes looped around her body to stop and hold her in place.

"Peace, my lady." He spoke softly, producing a knife which made her cringe away with a soft whimper before he went about cutting away her bonds. "We are not the savages employed by the Flayers."

Once Maraiya was free he pulled the gag knotted through her mouth away next and offered her his hand. "And one so fair should not be left to catch a cold in this chill." He added with a smile.

Looking upon this man, Maraiya now knew him to be a foreigner for sure by his dark complexion. His red eyes were unusual, but if Valyrian could have eyes like amethysts (much like her own family) then it should not be so unusual that somewhere in the world there are those with eyes like rubies. By the design of his weapon and form of his fighting style she assumed that he was Braavosi, but his accent and features marked him as being from much farther off from Westeros than just a quick jaunt across the Narrow Sea.

Slowly, Maraiya reached up and grasped his hand, which he gently wrapped around hers and used to help guide her back to her feet. By now the rest of his men, a mixture of foreigners and Borthmen, had gathered around. Their leader hung his axe across his back and reached down to pick up Nightfall.

"I know this blade." He rumbled, handling it delicately by the blade and cross guard. "I fought alongside the man who used it to fight Lewyn Martell to the death. A good man."

He looked to Maraiya and lifted his helmet away to reveal an aged face with a thick dark beard and grey eyes. "It's good to see it in the hands of his daughter."

He offered it to her, and Maraiya carefully took hold of her family's ancestral blade. "Thank you…"

"Wull." The man chuckled lightly. "Chief Hugo Wull."

"Thank you Chief Wull." Maraiya bowed her head in lieu of a curtsy. "I…I can't begin to imagine what fate you've saved me from today."

"Knowing who this lot served, it's better not to." Hugo Wull kicked one of the bodies. "Bunch'a toothless mutts. Only good for terrorizin' smallfolk and kidnappin' women."

The red-eyed man gave a whistle, and another of his men emerged into view…guiding Robin by the reins. "You can thank this one for leading us to you, my lady. We would have been scouring this entire wood if not for him."

"Robin!" Maraiya beamed and raced over to her steed, finding and snatching up Nightfall's scabbard and taking the time to safely sheathe it. "Ser, you don't know how much this means to me. Robin's been my only companion for days now."

"Please, I am no ser." The red-eyed man shook his head. "I am Syronos Dirrin, First-Sword and Captain of the Free Blades of Braavos…currently in the service of King Stannis of House Baratheon."

As she checked over Robin for signs of injury, these words made a painful reminded that her mission was not yet complete. "I have a message of utmost importance for your king. It's imperative that I deliver it to him."

"Is this why the flayers have been so insistent on scouring every inch of land between White Harbour and Widow's Watch for you?" Syronos asked.

"It is." Maraiya answered, patting Robin. "I've found evidence of House Bolton's plans to eliminate Stannis and his forces. My own mother…most of my family and several of the bannermen sworn to White Harbour are involved in this conspiracy."

"And so you took it upon yourself to deliver it rather than trust it to a messenger?" Syronos seemed more impressed than anything else. "I must compliment you on your courage."

"I couldn't trust a messenger." Maraiya shook her head. "White Harbour might not be as bad as King's Landing, but it can become a den of snakes all the same in the right corners. I couldn't take the chance that the messenger was in my mother's pocket."

"Still, it isn't easy to simply decide to take such a risk when it would be easier to, perhaps, allow the conspiracy to go through." Syronos pointed out. "I don't level any accusations against you, but I must ask…why have you chosen to help King Stannis?"

Maraiya held Nightfall to her chest. "Because…before my father died, he told me of the stories of how my house and most others in White Harbour were driven from the Reach by the Gardner Kings. We had nowhere to go, and of all who could have welcomed us the Starks allowed us to settle their lands despite the fact that we were Andals. There are many of us who feel that this debt has already been paid, claiming that the building of White Harbour and the benefits it has brought to trade in the North as a fair price. Others…such as my father, disagree."

She looked to the Nightingale crest on Nightfall's pommel. "The Boltons violated the sacred Guest Rite, slaughtered thousands of their allies and butchered our King. They were rewarded for it with rule over the North. If King Stannis will see them punished and the Starks restored to Winterfell, then he shall be the King I choose to follow."

Hugo Wull gave a sound of approval. "Aye, you're Victor's daughter alright. If you'd allow it, we'll escort you to Deepwood Motte. But I'd like to hear a bit of this conspiracy for myself on our way."

"Of course, Chief Wull." Maraiya responded, sliding Nightfall back into a pouch on Robin's saddlebags.

"Then let's not delay." Hugo Wull looked to his men and motioned with his head. "C'mon lads! We're heading back."

As the surrounding men formed up around her, Maraiya saw a long coat being offered to her by Syronos Dirrin, who had offered her the coat off his own back.

"We don't want you to come down with illness before we get there, my lady." He said, with that same warm smile and courteous tone.

"I can't leave you unprotected from these elements, Captain!" She replied, but her protests fell silent when he draped the coat around her shoulders anyways.

It was heavier than what she was used to, but thicker and warm than what she was wearing now. Syronos was still dressed in several layers much like her, having come prepared for the cold weather. In fact most of the men had forgone heavy armour in favour of what would allow them to keep warm while still provide some minuscule protection in battle.

"I have fought in the cold many times before, my lady." He assured her. "I shall endure."

Meekly accepting this with a whisper of thanks, she slid her arms through the sleeves and laced up the front.

Hugo Wull snorted. "If you're done playin' the chivalrous knight, Dirrin, we've got a ways to go and much to speak of."

Maraiya flushed at this, but Syronos took it in stride and chuckled. "Ah, yes, of course. My Lady, would you regale us with the tale of this conspiracy?"

As the procession began to move west, Maraiya began with the part that she felt was the most important. "Lord Bolton has secured the services of a major sellsword company, one that he didn't even need to pay for."

"That seems like a questionable business practice." Syronos commented. "But do go on."

"He didn't need to pay them because to them…because the very purpose behind the formation of their company is to eradicate the bloodline of House Stark to the last babe." Maraiya continued. "They call themselves the Company of the Axe."

Xxx

End of chapter


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Blackstone

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Sixteen: Blackstone**

 **Skane, Ashcrown**

"Tormund! Wake up!"

The Giantsbane helped as he was rolled out of his hammock. "Curse your cunt of a mother for openin' her legs!" He snarled and shot back to his feet, wielding what he realized was in fact his his sword but a bulging black spider which writhed, all eight legs waving erratically. Tormund gave a high pitched yelp and tossed it out the nearest window, narrowly missing Ser Davos.

"My apologies, Giantsbane." The Weaver, with a mischievous smile, stood by the doorway of their abode, "With so many skins it sometimes becomes hard to keep each of them where they don't belong."

Tormund's face turned red as his eyes wandered to where his sword lay on the floor. Thanks to Ser Davos' intervention they would never know if the war chief would give in to his more aggressive impulses.

"Tormund, Snow is gone!"

Tormund turned to the elderly knight, rage giving away to puzzlement as he processed Davos' words. Then his mind raced, immediately reaching the one and only conclusion that would explain Jon's absence.

"Fuck!" He hurried to gather his belongings. "He's gone on ahead. Fucking Crow and his honour!"

"It is not for honour that Jon Snow left you behind, Giantsbane." Daemon interjected. "He left you behind because there is nothing that either of you could hope to do to offer him any meaningful assistance in the coming conflict."

The Giantsbane disregarded this and stormed out through the front entrance. Davos followed, only to slam into Tormund's back as they found hundreds of the Weaver's skins dangling in front of them or crawling around every nearby surface.

"I hate this fucking place." Tormund whispered, taking slow, careful steps as he tried to side step around or move between the strands, avoiding getting entangled while Skani casually walked through at a leisurely place, some going as far as to allow the spiders to crawl over them. "This whole island and its dragons and spiders. Fuck! Why'd we come here?"

"Because Lord Snow came here." Davos, straight forward as ever. "At least that's why you came here. But I don't think we should ignore that old man. He might make my skin crawl as much as he does yours, but I don't think Snow would have willingly left us here unless he had just reason."

They cleared the labyrinth of spider silk, and Tormund felt that he could finally breathe. He'd grown up with stories of the frost spider steeds of the Others, seen their young on rare occasion crawling out of their hidden nests buried deep in old trees, in the frozen husks of the dead, flowing out like a tide of white and blue to launch themselves onto any unfortunate enough to be close enough, injecting a venom that saw the affected suffer a slow, gruesome death as their flesh turned a mottled purple, then black. It was these ones who had been the first wights seen since the Long Night, a few years after Tormund's birth.

In those days Wights had been few, lonesome shamblers that would wander and attack anyone they came across. Most were dispatched fairly easily and for a time it was believed that the threat of the undead would pass like a storm…but then more would appear and entire villages were found empty of life. Herds of animals disappeared, giants congregated into larger groups for protection…and those damned spiders were everywhere for a while. The Free Folk learned to fond and destroy their nests quickly, but some were still lost every year…

Among them had been Tormund's father. A true cunt of a man if ever there had been one, but he'd made sure Tormund had grown up strong enough to take over Ruddy Hall and become one of the most feared men beyond the Wall. His were the first eyes that Tormund watched turn blue before Torvon let loose and unearthly shriek and lunge at him, constrained by thick bindings so he and the other children could see the true enemy for themselves.

He was the first Wight that Tormund had been forced to put down, and the sight of those spiders crawling all over his father as he howled and writhed was still fresh in the forefront of his mind.

"Tormund," Davos addressed him again after giving him precious moments to calm himself. "I want to go after him too, but if this monster scared Snow enough to fear for us…perhaps the best thing we can do is wait for him."

"That what you kneelers do?" Tormund mocked. "When we pick a leader- a real leader, we follow him, no matter where."

"Sometimes following means staying behind!" Davos gripped the war chief's arm. "Tormund, quit thinking with your pride for just-"

Before he could finish the Giantsbane roared and slammed Davos into the nearest tree trunk, holding him there by the throat. Davos gagged and grasped at Tormund's wrist, feeling the man's fingers almost digging into his flesh.

"Don't. Touch me." Tormund hissed. "We might have the same colour of blood but I am not one of your small folk. I don't follow blindly, I follow because Jon Snow _earned_ that from me. I follow because the last two times that fool of a man went without me at his side he almost didn't come back. Both times he fought for my people after your king scattered us to the winds, so don't think for one second that you've any power to command me, _Onion Man_."

"If you truly wish to pursue Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane," Daemon's staff came to rest on his arm and gently coaxed him back while freeing Davos from the suffocating hold. "Then none here shall stop you. But if you will ignore all sound advice, at least allow an old man to give you counsel before you race off to face the terrors of the world."

Tormund growled, but relented. "Out with it then." He motioned impatiently.

"The creature that you seek has one thing in common with our Sheep." Daemon pointed his staff towards the looming shape of Ashcrown's Heartree. "It too draws upon a source of power, one that guarantees it victory in its own walls. Unlike Sheep's source, this one is more, shall we say…smaller and lighter. Easily removed if one could only get their hands on it."

"Does Snow know?" Tormund demanded.

"Jon Snow knows everything he needs to confront it." Daemon replied sagely. "The beast guards this source most carefully, but if it were to be occupied facing something such as, perhaps, a Gravewalker…"

"Then-" Davos coughed, sucking in breaths. "Then we could steal it."

"Perhaps." Daemon's tone gave Tormund the feeling that this was more supposition than certainty. "Anything is possible and death is the only true certainty. Perhaps it shall claim you both on this quest, perhaps it shall claim you a great many years from now."

"Valar morghulis." Davos whispered, remembering the phrase from Melisandre and god's knew how many Essosi who had signed on before the Battle Under the Wall.

"Indeed, all men _must_ die," Daemon agreed. "But so too must they serve before then. Valar dohaeris."

"We'll do it." Tormund affirmed. "What will it look like? How small is it?"

"Small?" Daemon grinned and held up one hand. "Why…small enough that I daresay it might fit in the palm of my hand, even my smallest finger perhaps. The smallest things are often the most precious, after all."

Xxx

 **Skane, Blackstone Quarry**

North of Ashcrown and Greencrown and the other ruins of Skani civilization, was a small range of steep hills and ravines. Though it was not a truly great stretch of land compared to the endless leagues of land in the North or Beyond the Wall, it was still of an impressive size. Unapproachable by sea with high cliffs towards the north, west and east and blockaded to the south by foothills with passes that would have made fools of anyone unfamiliar with the terrain, Jon was all the more glad for Sheepstealer and Rhae's company.

Riding a dragon was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. The moment that Sheepstealer had taken to the skies with his passengers Jon was struck with an exhilarating rush that would have once made his heart race. He remembered letting out a laugh as Sheepstealer circled Ashcrown before turning north, and heard Rhae echo him with her own cackle.

"I take it you've enjoyed your voyage, Gravewalker!" Rhae called over the howling winds.

"You wouldn't be wrong!" Jon replied, his eyes scanning the lengths of greenery that choked the floor of the valleys below, with some hints of crumbling structures poking out. "Which is it then?"

"Up ahead!" Rhae pointed before Sheepstealer began to enter a dive.

Jon held tightly to the saddle and raised his eyes to the northern horizon…and the great mass that jutted upwards to overshadow everything else he'd seen on Skane, Skagos and (save for the Wall) all of the North. It was a great fortress on par with the likes of Winterfell, striking a stunning and chilling shape in the first light of the day in a way that reminded him of drawings of the Hightower, Dragonstone and the Red Keep.

Only none of those structures, the legacies of great builders and kings of yore, never struck Jon with the sensation of dread that he felt from even glancing at this monstrosity of a castle. Built atop the seaside cliffs from black stone, it's battlements and towering spires were lined with great narrow spikes jutting upwards as if to cleave the sky open. Even from here Jon could see individual walkways, bridges and gateways which resembled the maws of some great dark beast opening up to devour all who stepped foot across.

This was an inhuman castle, built with the hands of man guided by an otherworldly mind.

"This is as close as we dare fly." Rhae said once they had landed, allowing Jon to dismount. "The approach is unguarded, but…" She stared towards the distant shape of the black stone fortress. "There are still things that dwell in this land, things that serve the thing that claims lordship."

"Does it have a name?" Jon asked. "The castle?"

"It does, but I'll dare not speak the tongue in which it was named." Rhae shook her head.

The Sheepstealer rumbled and craned his head around to set one of his golden eyes upon Jon before it turned into a pale, featureless void. Jon felt the weight of the ancient dragon's mind enveloping his own.

In the moment where the Sheepstealer all but held Jon's very soul in his jaws, he said only one thing before releasing Jon and leaving him on the hill overlooking the valley. Once the winged silhouette had vanished over the hills to the south, the Stranger appeared by his side with grim countenance.

"Morgund'dur." He hissed. "The Black Fortress. How creative."

"You know of that speech?" Jon asked.

Even hearing it from the Sheepstealer rather than out loud had been enough to make Jon's gut twist in discomfort. The stab wounds leftover from the mutiny throbbed and burnt beneath his armour and for a moment he felt unusually light, like an errant breeze might snatch him up and fling him away, never to touch ground again. Whatever tongue it was, whatever godless land it came from, Jon wanted nothing to do with it and would be glad to forget it once his business here was concluded.

"I did." The Stranger nodded. "It was called the Black Speech. From where it comes and from whom or what I learned it, I cannot account. But perhaps we have unwittingly stumbled upon the first clue to unlocking my own forgotten past."

"If your past can tell me how to kill this thing, it would be most convenient." Jon muttered and began to make his way down into the valley.

"Were it so easy." The Stranger dissolves from sight once more.

Xxx

 **The North, Queenscrown**

Val was told that rulers had used this little spit of a tower on a little spit of an isolated lake as temporary shelter many years ago- some Queen Alice or Queen Ann and her dragon. The surrounding lands, aside from being lush and fertile compared to the likes of Whitetree and other long abandoned settlements Beyond the Wall, was practically deserted with old buildings that had been built strong and to last, providing shelter to the elderly, the sick and the young while the men and women worked.

Once there would have been nothing that could convince the dozens of tribes present to remain within one another's company. It may very well have been because of the prevalent threat from both the north and south they did not simply disperse to lay down roots all across the Gift, but even without that their time moving as a single host had created bonds that dissolved old boundaries and had even led to some tribes engulfing one another while their leaders still looked to her and Mother Mole.

Twenty-one thousand and six-hundred some Free Folk along with a little under four hundred giants and their mammoths called Queenscrown, its surrounding lake and lands home now. The giants made the labour of tearing down and dragging whole trees easier, allowing work to begin on construction of a village near the end of the concealed causeway connecting the island to shore and a planned wall to encircle it. Hardhome had not lasted long even with its high and thick walls of wood, but it had taught the Free Folk a lesson in keeping the dead from washing over their home so easily, should the day come that Wights and their masters walked under a southern sun.

From the highest level of Queenscrown, Val used the vantage point of the developing settlement to envision the layers of defences that would be built to all sides. Further beyond that she could see the training grounds where thousands of fighters were being drilled in the warfare of the south. They were shown how to lay down stakes and ditches to fend off cavalry charges, to organize their bowman for volleys, to form shield walls and to react to orders amidst battle. It was nothing compared to the real thing, but habit was a good enough teacher where experience reaped too high a cost in blood.

Siege tactics were harder to teach, but the Free Folk were not expected to besiege any castles. Stannis wanted them to give him an unparalleled advantage in numbers, making his host the largest north of the Neck. His own men could handle the more intricate aspects of conquest and be at the forefront of any army to be seen by the southrons.

He was welcome to every castle he wanted, the Free Folk had their promise of protection and fertile land to sustain them. What were high walls of stone and luxuries of gold and excess to the freedom of following one's own way, laying their own path and living more a fulfilling life than any small folk?

"Val!" Mother Mole was helped up the stairs traversing the spine of the holdfast by some of her followers. "Val! Damn it, child, the least you can do when your elder calls is say _anything!_ Even just to tell me to keep out."

"Keep out." Val muttered numbly, and gently rocked little Aemon to ease the infant's fussing.

"Bah, hell with that!" Mother Mole shook off the hands of her followers and limped over as quickly as her aged physique allowed. "Get your head out of those ink pots, girl. Something has happened!"

Val's drawings of the outline of the planned outer walls of Queenscrown were rough enough to make most artistic spirits weep and had cost the contents of more than one inkwell as she tried to master the use of a quill as opposed to some charcoal. Fuming, Val tossed the quill down onto the old desk and scraped her chair back, leading to a renewed wailing from little Aemon.

"And what told you this time? Animal guts land in certain shape? Did a cloud have an odd shape?" She drawled, her patience for the wood witch's omens already strained without her nephew seeking to awaken the dead long before the Others could cross the Wall.

For her words she took a rap from Mother Mole's staff against her thigh. "Don't you mock the gods' vision, girl! It is Jon Snow, something has happened to him!"

Any number of possible ill fates to be suffered on Skagos swam in her head. Her people would not easily go near there, even if it made for an easier journey than crossing the tallest wall in the world. It was an island of old, dark magic and ungodly spirits.

"Tell me." Val demanded. "What happened on Skagos?"

"No, not Skagos." Mother Mole shook her head and slumped into Val's vacated seat. "He went there, but then he moved further north…to Skane."

"That dead rock?" Val was aghast at the idea of Jon Snow journeying to the one place on the eastern sea that her people feared more than Skagos. "Why the hell would he go anywhere near there?!"

"I'm not a bloody raven, I don't know every detail of his mind!" Mother Mole snapped. "All I know is that he sailed there and then…he vanished into darkness." She leaned heavily against her staff. "He is beyond my sight, the sight of the gods. He's entered the shadow of something terrible…something ancient, and I know not if he will return now."

"Of course he'll return." Val reasoned. "He's a Gravewalker now, he can't die. You've made that more than clear since you met him."

"Oh child, even Gravewalkers are not immutable against all threats." Mother Mole sighed wearily. "There are things that walked this world before the First Man crawled from the mud, before the first Child of the Forest poked its head out of its tree hole or the first Giant stood tall. As time has passed they have grown few and withdrawn from the world, but they are still there, waiting for their time to come again."

Taking a piece of charcoal from her robes, Mother Mole grabbed one of the lengths of parchment Val had set aside and began to draw on it, her blindfolded gaze on the open window. "And Jon Snow, the brave fool he is, may have incurred the wrath of one by trespassing in its domain."

She finished drawing and slumped in the chair. "May the gods protect us all if he falls to it."

Val picked up the vandalized parchment. At first Mother Mole's work looked like some shapeless black mass, but in better light Val saw it for what it was.

Fire and shadow intertwined, wreathed like a cloak around some dark form with two bright, piercing eyes.

"Fire." Mother Mole wheezed. "And darkness."

Xxx

 **Skane, Morgund'dur**

If the fortress was disconcerting at a distance, it was terrifying up close. Jon hadn't encountered anything as he crossed the remaining distance, not any animals or even insects. The silence had given the woodland an ominous, heavy air that only grew heavier by the time he stood before the open gate of the fortress.

It was utterly abandoned, at least at first sight. Jon could see that no plants had grown upon the walls or the grounds beyond the gate. Nature itself ceased to be almost a hundred yards away at the treeline, leaving only dust and barren dirt with several shrivelled husks of trees withered away long ago.

"This is a place forsaken by the gods." The Stranger hissed as soon as Jon stepped under the gatehouse. "Move swiftly and keep out of sight as we move deeper in."

"Can you sense anything?" Jon kept a hand on Longclaw as he surveyed the outer bailey.

Morgund'dur was already larger than most castles on the mainland without taking into account the outer fortifications. With them, it slowly became a contender against Harrenhal for the spot of the largest. Nearly every building was higher than three stories and shared the disconcerting architectural features as the outer wall, forming a labyrinth which looked ready to devour any who entered unprepared.

"No." The Stranger replied. "And that is the problem."

Parts of the bailey were in disrepair, but a closer look divulged a tale of deliberate destruction. A pillar had been struck by something sufficiently strong enough to scatter its pieces across the ground for many feet. The upper level of a storehouse had partly caved in, but the floor beneath and many of the loose blocks had been crushed under a great and now absent weight. One of several towers standing vigil over a bridge linking to the inner bailey had been knocked over and, as it stood to reason from its proximity, tumbled into the sea while its lower third remained with a wooden structure built out of the stump to serve as a suitable rampart for bowmen to shoot from.

 _A great battle was fought here, and someone was around after to fix the damage._

Where the outermost bailey contained workshops, stables and even several towering granaries encompassed behind a wall, the next held the appearance of a military fort, with barracks and what looked like gargantuan forges- easily outclassing the Street of Steel if literary depictions were to be trusted. Its wall, carved right into the rock of the cliff it rested on, was easily twice as high as the first and its gatehouse would present a gauntlet for an army of any size to reach, much less breach.

It was after Jon had scaled this gatehouse and hauled himself onto the top of this wall that he found the first sign that he was not alone.

"Smoke." He traced the rising black pillar to its foundation amidst the second bailey.

"Nothing here is our friend." The Stranger warned. "If you go, be prepared to strike."

Jon leapt from the inner wall to the nearest roof top, dashing across and using the added speed to leap almost twice as far to reach the next. Once he fell short but easily found a handhold and flung himself back up to continue his trek until it came to an end on a tower overlooking a small square…with the body of a fish as large as a man roasting over a fire. The sight of a catch so big did not keep hold of his attention for long, overwhelmed by the growing concern of who or what could be cooking what was still a fresh catch in the heart of ruins.

"Something has fed here before." The Stranger indicated bones, old and recent, sprinkled around the square.

"Something shall feed here again soon." Jon manifested his bow and scrutinized the surrounding buildings, settling on a pair of double doors that opened into a shadowed interior with what looked like cages visible from his perch. "Let's see just what it is."

Manifesting an arrow as he drew the string back, Jon knelt on the roof and gazed through the Wraith World to see what dwelled within…

"There's nothing in there." He relaxed his hold on the bow string. "Or in any of them, but…"

The sound of heavy footfalls from behind made Jon curse and swing around, quickly loosing the arrow before an immense form slammed into him and flung him clean off of the roof.

 _Shit!_

Jon crashed into the fish carcass and rolled to his feet among sizzling fish guts and smouldering kindling knocked from the fire pit. Longclaw sang free of its scabbard as Jon's attacker landed on the ground…a spectral green arrow lodged into its head. The large, quadrupedal form twitched several times before falling still, the arrow dissolving into oblivion.

"Fuck!" Jon gasped out of habit. "What the hell is this?"

The beast, at first glance, resembled a sort of cross between an immense dog and cat. It lacked any hair, exposing mottled red and brown flesh stretched across a body with muscle practically bulging through, particularly towards the front where rows of scale like plates covered the top of its head and reached back across its neck. A row of spikes trailed down its spine towards a small tail. The arrow that Jon had loosed in haste had punched through one of its eyes, leaving another large yellow orb intact and its lion-like face drawn back in a snarl.

"A creature that I know never existed on Skane." The Stranger separates from Jon and knelt over the beast's carcass. "I can't tell if it more closely resembles a wolf or a mountain lion, but in any case you are fortunate that it did not live long enough to do any real damage."

Jon was prepared to agree before something howled from nearby…then it was joined by another matching call, then three more after that.

"…however." The Stranger slowly got to his feet as figures appeared on the surrounding roof tops. "It seems it had a pack."

Jon was surrounded by five of the creatures now, each of them carrying a man secured in a large saddle. With frightening ease the beasts leapt down and landed safely along with their riders, each of them clad from in rough, misshapen and black armour which had little in common with one another outside of this. Two wielded massive spears while the rest held jagged, ugly swords which they waved threateningly at Jon, jeering at him in a Tongue most unfamiliar.

"Gul!" One of the spear wielders bellowed gutturally, jabbing their weapon towards him as their mount paced back and forth, glaring at Jon and growling at him. "Mabus ta!"

The five converged on him as one, their mounts striking with the coordination and swiftness of a wolf pack. Jon dove to one side, narrowly slipping under one of them and sliced upwards to fend off one of the beasts as it snapped its jaws at him. Longclaw's edge dug into the protective plating around its head but failed to entirely breach, allowing it to recover and slam into him, knocking him into a wall where two more lunged at him. Jon kicked off of the ground and leapt clear over them, landing awkwardly to find himself under assault once again before he could get his bearings, one of the spearmen stabbing him in the back.

Jon hissed through his teeth and twisted around, grabbing the spear by its haft as the rider tried to pull back. He tugged the weapon and pulled its wielder out of their saddle while their mount, seemingly confused by its rider's disappearance, trotted a short distance away and twisted around with a sound of puzzlement. Jon gave the spearman no chance to recover, aiming just below their helmet and and decapitating them with one slice.

Wielding Longclaw with one hand and the spear with the other, Jon turned and was immediately flawed across the chest, leather tearing and metal shrieking. The blow knocked him onto his back where another one of the pack wrapped its jaws around his midsection. Disoriented by the endless assault, Jon was swung up off of the ground and flung around like a rag doll until another grip closed around one of his legs and began to pull.

The pain shocked Jon back into action, bringing a film of red over his vision as every instinct that had carried over with him into his new unlife shrieked at him.

 _Rise! Fight! KILL!_

With a howl he stabbed the spear, which he'd held onto, into the face of the creature latched onto his torso. It yelped and let him go, but the other- seeming revenge for its rider, dragged him by the foot while the rest still circled and moved in to join again.

 _Circling to kill. I am not some fucking sheep! I'm a wolf of Winterfell!_

Though he didn't remember now, later he would recall tales of the Wolf's Blood as his father had told him: a primal and reckless rage that burned through the veins of any Stark, save those who learned to suppress and control it. Fear, pain and rage brought this out in full force, making Jon less of the warrior he'd become after years on the Wall…and more of a berserker who would not be slowed by injury or agony.

Jon's hand, clawing at the ground, found Longclaw's hilt and brought the blade up in time for a massive jaw to close around his arm…unintentionally taking the Valyrian steel right into its throat. The creature gagged and recoiled, blood spilling from its mouth as it staggered clumsily from side to side, slowly drowning in its own blood.

Jon turned his attention to the mount dragging him by the leg through filth and bones. He flipped Longclaw around in his hand and drove it through the creature's face, freeing his leg and killing it but leaving Longclaw stuck for one instant too long. One of the two remaining mounted beasts latched onto his sword arm and flung him away, leaving Longclaw impaled in its pack-mate.

Jon staggered to his feet, sore all over and feeling the Wolf's Blood roaring through him like a great raging river. Without meaning to he had the Fist of the First Men move from his belt to his hand and spun around with a howl, delivering a vicious blow to the chest plate of one of the two fighters who'd abandoned their dead mounts, sending them flying across the square. With the momentum of that swing Jon finished his spin and, in a two-handed overhead swing, brought the Fist down on the head of the fourth mount, crushing its skull into the ground while its rider shrieked and tumbled from his saddle. They tried to scramble away, crawling through the filth to where their sword had dropped, but were stopped by Jon's foot pressing down on their back.

A wordless roar split the air as Jon brought the Fist down, turning the rider's head into pulp barely contained by the caved in remains of their helm. He realized as he pulled back and saw the last rider and his two unseated companions backing away that the roar had been him.

The lone rider snapped in the same guttural language from before at the warriors, urging them on. One shook their head and turned halfway to flee before a spear took them through the neck from behind. The other reluctantly stepped forward, one quivering arm holding their sword up towards Jon.

Jon reared his arm back and flung the Fist through the air, watching as it spun towards the swordsman with accuracy that he would not have possessed even when not engulfed in his present state. The head of the hammer buried itself straight through the helmet, caving it in as well as the face beneath, causing the sword to tumble from spasming fingers as their body fell to its knees and slowly tipped forward.

Before it landed, Jon relocated himself in a flash of green and ripped the Fist free. The rider had seen him bereft of any weapons but a dagger at his side and saw this as an opportunity for a clean kill. Instead their mount's head was sent flying with one swing, causing them to tip forward head over arse and land in the fire pit. Howling, they rolled out and batted at the flames spreading over their body, ripping away furs and leathers in their urgency.

Before they'd finished Jon had caught up and delivered a hit to the side of their head, not hard enough to kill but sufficient to knock their helmet loose. As the headwear clattered away Jon beheld the man beneath…only to find that he was not looking at anything that looked like a man.

What he saw, writhing against the grip he had on a mess of greasy, coarse hair, only resembled a man in the most superficial manner. Its skin, mottled and discoloured, was of an ashen grey colour and had numerous growths bulging from twisted features including a misshapen nose, asymmetric skull structure that had led to many an unfortunate Westerosi child being tossed into the sea or being left to die in the woods and sickly yellow eyes which bulged in terror. Several rings were embedded into its nose, an earring carved from what looked like fish bones pierced its right ear which was larger and more pointed than the left.

The wretched creature wheezed and babbled in its language. The shock of it had been enough to give Jon pause, allowing him to come down from the berserker state he'd found himself in. Rather than dispatch it as he had its fellows he slowly lowered the Fist of the First Men back to where it hung on his belt.

"Don't tell me you intend to spare it." The Stranger snorted. "These things would have ripped you apart had they been any quicker!"

"And it will die for that." Jon agreed. "But first…I have questions."

Spectral wraith fire spread across his free hand, engulfing his palm and digits, this time without burning away his glove or bracer. The Stranger caught on to his intent and gave what looked like an approving smile as his silhouette fused with Jon's as he brought his arm back and then swung down, clamping his hand down on the side of the creature's face. Its entire body froze up, its eyes clouding over and its jaw hanging open silently despite Jon's grip singing its flesh enough to generate a putrid scent.

" **OT SEGAR MINA!** "

 _Your secrets are mine!_

Jon had been informed of this ability long beforehand, but never before now had he had reason to use it. The ability to influence the hollowed minds of the Zaric and Goric under the Others had entailed the ability to view them just as their masters did, but the decayed mind had yielded only a modest understanding of the Old Tongue and little else. This living, breathing creature- abominable as it was, had much more to divulge.

Its people were called…Orc. Where they came from it knew not, only that they had always served on Skani and that none dared ponder the world beyond. It knew of the man-swine who served the Fire-Wing to the south, that to cross the hills for long was a guaranteed death. To question orders was death.

It was a soldier, born and raised here, never travelling beyond the forests and hills to the south in keeping with those same warnings. It was in charge of feeding and tending to the beasts for which the dinner had been prepared…

 _Cazarin_.

It only knew its duty to the Lord of Morgund'dur and little else. It had only rarely seen man-swine at a distance when patrolling the southern border, and only once had it gotten close enough to see the whites in their eyes as it sank its spear into a man's heart.

It had a name…a rank…it was an officer of sorts among those who called Morgund'dur home.

 _Lobra. Lobra the Wolf._

Jon snorted derisively at the name.

Lobra was a Captain of the Black Riders, albeit a lesser Captain who had enviously gazed upon the office of many of those his greater. He'd fought other Captains for influence before. Sometimes he'd emerged victorious, other times he'd fled in shame.

His latest memories were of a warning of the Fire-Wing approaching. Most were withdrawn to the catacombs or hidden outposts in the forests to wait and see if it would depart as usual. He'd been given the job of keeping the Carazin calm, hence why he was away from the comfort of his quarters and with so few escorts.

He was among the lowest rungs of leadership in this fortress, and yet…

"He may be of use to us." The Stranger whispered. "These creatures, their minds are not as weak as that of the shamblers and yet they lack the same fortitude as that of Man, Child or Giant."

"You would have me spare him?" Jon demanded.

"I would have you make use of him." The Stranger replied. "Place your brand upon his mind and dominate his will as you did before. He may have use if this fortress is not so abandoned as it looks. Wretched as he is…he does command other warriors."

The idea of calling any of these things his servant, much less his ally, was revolting to Jon as much as the idea of making peace with the Boltons. And yet this thing had not robbed him of his family and home like the Flayers had…and there was sense in the Stranger's suggestion.

" **OBED MIN AGOR!** " He boomed, ripping apart the pitiful resistance of the creature's mind.

Lobra the Wolf groaned in agony until Jon pulled his hand back. "I…I obey…" He murmured, his words in the same tongue as before but now clear as common to Jon and his eyes containing a pale green sheen in the irises. "Command me…Barhdgul."

 _White Wraith._

"You shall report that men from the south infiltrated this fortress, but you and yours killed them." Jon ordered. "You were the only survivor. You fed their remains to more of your carazin. After that you will return to whatever your regular duties are and behave as if nothing has changed. You will gather information on any other Captains who call this place home, on the forces they command. When I call to you, you will answer and tell me all that you have learned. If you fail, you shall die. If you try to betray me, you will suffer and _then_ die. Do you understand?"

"Yes, oh lord!" Lobra the Wolf fell to his knees, his skin bearing burns from his fall into the fire pit but otherwise he appeared to be in what his kin considered to pass for good health. "I shall not fail you."

"Go." Jon pointed sharply. "Now!"

Lobra climbed to his feet and lurched away. Once he was alone the Stranger reappeared at Jon's side.

"Whatever calls this place home has been busy." He stated. "That thing…it or its ancestors were once men, but now…something has twisted them into becoming these…Orcs. A docile slave species with a mind that is almost hand crafted to obey."

Could this have been the fate that awaited any Skani who had failed to escape from Mordgund'dur after the coming of Sheepstealer and Nettles? Had the thing that called itself Lord here intended this for all of them, to devolve them into these hideous and pitiful things that were little more than pale reflections of the First Men?

"You are right to be angered on behalf of the Skani." The Stranger had sensed his outrage. "But do not let that anger guide you as it did in this battle." He motioned to the corpses littering the square. "The Wolf's Blood still flows through you, Jon Snow. It can be both a great weapon…and your downfall if it is not tempered."

Jon winced as he saw some of the damage he'd inflicted. "I've never…felt like that before." He picked up Longclaw and began to clean the blade. "Not even back in the Haunted Forest or at the Fist."

"The Wolf's Blood is not merely a fierce temperament, but a gift from the gods to the line of Brandon." The Stranger explained. "Men who should have been felled are able to endure and fight on with the strength of ten. They can race across fields of ice and never be brought low by any but the deepest of chills. Just another gift lost and forgotten to the ages, used by Lords of Winterfell like your father as little more than an excuse for the ill tempers of reckless children like your uncle."

Jon felt a stab of indignation as he realized who the Stranger spoke of. "My uncle Brandon's sister had been taken. How else should he have reacted?"

"A man who cannot retain his self control is normal, if not still embarrassing to see." The Stranger snapped. "A man who managed to lose it and not regain it for the weeks needed to ride to the Mad Dragon's court is better off dead. I daresay the North was better off with the second son, his naive fixation with honour aside. I would have you take the best parts of your father: a willingness to stand and fight tempered by patience and discipline. How else did he manage to defeat the Sword of the Morning?"

The fact that the Stranger seemed to have limitless access to his memories was not something that he liked to be reminded of, though it had saved on a great deal of time informing him of recent historical events.

"The more that you fight, the more opportunities you will have to test your control." The Stranger's voice changed from that of a lecture similar to Ser Rodrik Cassell's to more of a gentle chastisement…sounding far too much like his father. "I will help you where I am able, but in the end it will be up to you control yourself. Mad wolves do not prosper long, for they lack a pack of their own."

"But the pack always survives." Jon slid Longclaw into its scabbard and took in his rather ragged and tattered state. "I'll remember that."

He gazed up towards the central keep and knew that unless he was more careful than he'd been up to now he would have all the practice he needed in exercising his temper.

"In the meantime: let's go see this Lord of Morgund'dur for ourselves."

Xxx

 **The North, Winterfell**

"The entire unit, my lord." Ben Bones confirmed with a nod, standing before Roose Bolton and his war council. "There were signs of a battle, but it's clear they were taken by surprise."

"And the girl?" Roose remained where he was looming over a map of the North, his pale eyes fixed upon Deepwood Motte.

"No sign of her, my lord."

Roose motioned with one hand. "You're dismissed."

Ben Bones, like the rest of the Bastard's Boys, knew not to question and showed himself out without a word.

Once the door was shut, Torren Whitehill growled and slapped a hand down on the table. "The whore will tell Stannis everything!"

"Thank you for reminding us of that." Barbrey Dustin, the only woman present, drawled. "It's like we haven't had prior discussion of that possibility."

"The girl could have been taken by bandits," Rodrik Roswell, Barbrey's father, suggested. "Or even Wildlings. We can't really imagine that Stannis would retain control of all of them. Ambushes and raids like those we've suffered are their favoured tactic."

"Maraiya Bell has reached Stannis Baratheon." Roose stated flatly. "Of that, there is no argument. But it matters little."

"Little?!" Ramsay had remained silent up until now. "Stannis knows your precious plan, father! He'll-"

"Still not move until the weather lifts enough for him to march without his army being bogged down." Roose cut his son off. "And in any case, it doesn't matter because the girl will only tell him what I've shared with her mother and any other Neutral houses tempted to join us."

When he was met with silent expressions of curiosity and interest the Warden of the North smiled coolly and resumed his seat at the end of the table. "I shared my short term plan with them in the hopes that any one of them would inform Stannis. My true plan is to be known only among yourselves and several trusted officers under pain of death."

"You _want_ Stannis to know?" Rodrik Ryswell asked incredulously.

"It didn't matter if any did as I'd expected, nor if they succeeded." Roose answered. "If Maraiya Bell was captured and taken to the Dreadfort, my agents across Hornwood, Flint and Manderly lands would guarantee that word spread of my men chasing down the heiress of Nightingale Hall as she attempted to desert to the Baratheon army; others would spread rumours that she'd spoken of House Bolton conspiring to bring sellswords to the North, telling anyone between Hornwood and White Harbour who would listen as it became clear that she'd be captured soon enough. If she was not captured then Stannis would still be told exactly what I wish for him to know."

"Is this some attempt to goad him into attacking early in desperation?" Barbrey guessed, intrigued by Lord Bolton's words. "Make him choose between marching now while he has the numbers or risk losing when the snows subside?"

"If he did, that would not have been unwelcome." Roose shrugged. "What matters is that he now thinks that he knows the extent of my strategy against him."

Torrhen Whitehill's eye's widened in realization. "A mummer's show!" He declared before lowering his voice for fear of anyone hearing through the door. "That's why you took every effort to have Bell hunted down, so it would seem genuine and garner Baratheon's interest."

"And also gauge the reactions of the neutral houses." Rodrik Ryswell nodded, impressed by the deception that was being revealed to them. "To see if it would sway more to our side."

"Which it did." Roose confirmed. "I seek to cleanse the north of any dissident elements, but I don't want it entirely depopulated and unable to protect itself. After the Starks are eliminated and there are no more trueborn sons to unite around there will be no further risk of a rebellion."

"Then what is your plan?" Ramsay asked. "And why have you not shared it with me before?"

"Because you have an annoying precedent of boasting to anyone around you." The Lord of the Dreadfort deadpanned, any hints of amusement at the guessing game going on before him gone from his tone and expression. "The only reason I'm sharing now is because I need you to know so you don't try something foolish with your twenty good men."

Ramsay's eyes widened and his nostrils flared. One of his arms shifted beneath the table and Roose moved his own hand to wrap around the hilt of the knife he'd had secured to the underside of the table prior to the meeting, hung in a simple set of hooks embedded into the table which would allow him to slip it off at a moment's notice. He'd made a show of entering the room entirely unarmed to see who would react to it in any way that would be suspicious…and in the event that his son proved to be in need of a lesson in managing his emotions.

Ramsay exhaled. "Then…what is the plan…father?"

Roose lowered his hand away from the knife handle. "In short: to eliminate every last threat to our rule in one fell swoop. The Starks, the Baratheons, the Wildlings…the Company of the Axe if their interpretation of honour doesn't hold to keeping deals made with Northmen." He smiled again. "As for how we will do that, the hardest step was already accomplished when we took Winterfell. The next steps I intend to divide among you and your bannermen to ensure that if any here or any enacting these orders are captured they cannot be made to reveal everything. Simply accomplish your tasks, report directly back to me and then we can move forward."

He began to hand out rolls of parchment. "Read them, memorize them, burn them and if anyone besides you sees even one letter of these I will let Ramsay feed you to his precious Bastards' Girls."

That prospect seemed to cheer his son up, for now.

Xxx

End of Chapter


	18. Chapter 17: The Lord of Morgund'dur

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

It's occurred to me that I have no been doing a very good job at measuring the passage of time between the varying perspectives. I've decided to remedy this by beginning to add dates to each perspective. You will see what I mean in this chapter. I understand that this might conflict with some sources, be they book or show based canon, but…I honestly can't bring myself to nitpick that much.

Xxx

 **Chapter Seventeen: The Lord of Morgund'dur**

 **4** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Wolfswood, the North**

The company had set up camp in an abandoned village two days south-east of Deepwood Motte, another settlement where the people had fled banditry and the constant snowfall for more secure shelter. There were some supplies left behind in haste, and rooms that could retain warmth enough for Maraiya to have a good night's rest. The bed was rough and uncomfortable compared to the one she'd left behind at Nightingale Hall, yet when Syronos Dirrin had left her alone she'd fallen face-down onto it and fallen asleep almost immediately, waking later to find herself encumbered by layers of fur.

She'd found that the sellswords and clansmen had been joined during the night by riders bearing the tree of House Forrester and the bow of House Glenmore, almost a hundred in total who had been advancing to secure another forward position for Stannis' supply lines that stretched further south. They'd gotten to work on fortifying the village with rows of trenches and spikes to fend off any direct assaults. There was only so much to be done with so few men and the cold ever present, but they'd made good progress before breaking for the afternoon and gathered in the mead hall at the heart of the village.

There was no grand feast like most of the Manderly bannermen would have thrown, but a solemn and quiet meal where more than a few Northmen with grey in their hair acknowledged her with a 'm'lady' or 'Lady Bell'. Some of the younger ones were too bashful to speak to her unless needed or were of such low birth that they were scared to try, growing up on tales of nobles reacting disproportionately to such contact. Fortunately, her isolation was quickly remedied by Hugo Wull, whose booming laugh and lack of lordly protocol left those of lower station more at ease around him- and through him, Maraiya.

"And now the Kraken bitch rots under Deepwood Motte!" He boasted at the conclusion of his tale covering how the forces of Stannis Baratheon, the Mountain Clans and House Mormont had entrapped and slaughtered Asha Greyjoy's Ironborn occupation force, taking the Princess of the Iron Islands captive. "There she sits and waits, wondering if the Stag King will burn her alive or feed her to a Heartree."

Maraiya's nauseous expression must not have been lost on Syronos, who'd added. "The King's intention is to ransom Princess Asha back to her uncle at Ten Towers." He informed her, disguising it as a clarification for the group listening to the Big Bucket. "The children of Sybelle Glover languish there as hostages. With this, our King shall reunite House Glover and remove the last of the Ironborn infestation."

"Gods willing, he'll also reunite them with their master and fail to pick up the spare." A Forrester man grumbled, deep into his flask.

Maraiya quickly delved into her recollection of Northern houses and pinned down who the man was speaking of.

"Why would you wish ill on Robett Glover?" She asked.

"Why wouldn't I after he got my pa killed?" The man at arms countered with his own question. "He let Bolton trick him and the Tallharts into a fool's attack on Duskendale. Three thousand men right on King's Landing's door step made helpless prey for the false Stag and his Lions and Roses. I don't even have his bones, for the southrons buried him and a thousand more in some hole, out of sight if the gods. So yes: let Robett Glover stay gone and Galbart Glover be found, I say."

Maraiya could imagine the man's pain, but considered that he likely hadn't an extended family or the wealth and luxury of a noble house as even a cold comfort for the loss. "That's hardly fair. How could Robett Glover be aware of Bolton's treachery before the Red Wedding?" She countered.

"Fair? You want to speak of 'fair'?" The man sneered. "Fair would be that my pa stood here with me right now. Fair would be that we'd never lost the war in the south. Fair would be that we'd never _gone_ south to fight a war. But when the lords start picking fights they need armies to make them mightier, so fair has nothing to do with it."

Maraiya's hand tightened around the hilt of Nightfall where it lay across her lap. "You're right about that." She conceded. "I never got to grow up with my father. Do you know how he died?"

"I can only assume heroically." The man used a sleeve to clean his beard.

"He died fighting a war started because some prince couldn't be satisfied with his own wife." Maraiya bluntly stated. "His final deeds go unremembered, his bones buried hundreds of leagues from home. His death is no less unjust than your father's. No war is fair. The world is not fair. It is only what we make of it after we stop groaning about fairness."

Words from her father. He'd had no patience for petulant whining and entitlement, tolerating it in his wife only because duty dictated it.

The man seemed to have expected a different response from her, likely that she would try to justify Robett Glover's incompetence and absolve him of blame.

"The lady speaks true." Syronos Dirrin reminded the room of his presence as he stood up from his chair in the corner. "My friend, I do not begrudge you your right to mourn your father. Nor do I deny that Robett Glover does bear some responsibility as commander. But your fury is better served while directed at foes whose guilt is determined by their actions than friends whose guilt is determined by their mistakes. It was the Leech Lord who arranged events as they have transpired, so let him be the one who suffers your ire."

The man-at-arms reluctantly nodded and murmured an apology. "It just wasn't right." He whispered. "Fought in the Ninepenny War, the rebellion, against the Greyjoys, my pa did. Not right how he ended after all that."

"Good men rarely die in a manner they deserve." The Bravo agreed. "Long ago before Syronos Dirrin, there was a nameless boy raised in darkness and fear. A man came to that boy and made him his son, showed him the world and the many wonders and fears it holds across every inch of ground between Pentos and the Five Forts." He sank into the seat next to the man-at-arms. "The man let that boy pick his own name, taught him everything he needed to survive…and then he went to achieve glory only to die with few to remember him. He left behind a family half a world away, a name that he no longer cared to hold and a son not of his blood."

"Sounds like he was a good man," the Forrester man nodded, "how did he die?"

Syronos' red eyes slowly sank towards the surface of the table. "…he sailed into the Smoking Sea after leaving me in Volantis." He said. "He left me behind because he was almost certain that he would die, and would not see me follow him with so many years ahead of me. Did your father volunteer in your place when Gregor Forrester heeded his liegelord's call?"

The man-at-arms drew in a shuddering breath and rubbed his gloved hand across his up lip. "Aye, he did." He said quickly. "I wanted to go, told him he was too old. He forced me to stay and marched off."

"Do you know why?" Syronos asked.

"…I think I do now." The man nodded, his eyes watering.

"Then mourn him as you must, avenge his betrayal on the flayers…but most importantly: do justice to the life he lived by living to a ripe old age with children that you might make that same decision for." Syronos said with a comforting hand set upon his back. "For in the end, be we highborn or lowborn: valar morghulis, but the gods be damned if children must die before their parents."

Several other Essosi repeated that phrase: valar morghulis, all men must die.

After the meal had ended, Maraiya caught Syronos outside, heading towards the cellar doors around behind the mead hall. "You've a way with people, Captain." She said, falling into step beside him.

"When you see enough of the world and all the sorrows that can be suffered, you learn to empathize and speak with those who suffer them." Syronos replied humbly, bowing his head slightly. "It is a mark of accomplishment when we are able to rise above those losses and grow from them. I'd been told of what befell your father in the rebellion, but thought better of asking you about it, but now find that I simply must ask you something, with your permission."

"You have it."

"You said your father's last deeds go unremembered. What did you mean by that?" Syronos asked.

"In the Battle of the Trident, my father and his men joined a brazen assault against the Dornish lines by a Vale knight, Ser Lyn Corbray." Maraiya turned her gaze to the snow laden trees at the edge of the village. "Everyone credits that man as a hero for slaying Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, few acknowledge that Prince Lewyn had been too heavily wounded to protect himself by the time they'd met. Fewer yet, if any, know that it was my father who had lost his life dealing those injuries to the Prince. Lyn Corbray's chargé had left his men vulnerable to being flanked, forcing my father and his reserve force of mounted knights to ride to his aid. Either none knew or none cared for those lost in the charge, only concerned with Ser Lyn's victory. I only knew of it because the few knights under his command to survive made sure to tell me when they returned with Nightfall."

Ser Lyn Corbray was not unknown to Syronos, whose time in Braavos had granted him plentiful time to get to know the names of many major and minor houses in Westeros under the certainty that one day he and his men would be hired to serve there for one side or another. Second son to the noble house of Corbray, younger brother of the childless Lyonel and senior to Lucas; he had earned his knighthood fighting for the Targaryens at Gulltown but was pardoned after the city fell to rebel forces. He was known as an impetuous man, bloodthirsty and vain…with some rumours purchased from informants indicating that the man had a taste for boys.

If it was for full grown men Syronos would not have faulted him. As it stood he could live without ever meeting this man and die happy for it.

"Why was your father not returned with the sword?" Syronos asked.

"My mother." Maraiya's fair features were marred by a scowl. "She only cared for the family sword. She only cared for my father when he was alive and able to overturn anything she attempted. Dead, he left her in control of our family's lands. She had her men forgo bringing his remains back and left them in a mass grave with thousands of others."

Syronos knew enough of westerosi marriages that Victor Bell almost certainly hadn't picked Vivienne as his wife. Arranged marriages made for peculiar pairings that way.

"What of you, Captain?" Maraiya tried to divert the topic away from her family. "You name yourself a man of Braavos, but is Braavos where you were raised in darkness and fear?"

Syronos shook his head with a hollow smile, stopping before the cellar doors. "No. The place I spoke of is to the far east where every day is dark as night and most never know the warmth of sunlight. There, the sunset kingdoms are a myth and a boy is lucky if he reaches adulthood without having some extremity lopped off and tossed in a fire for some blood ritual. Even luckier if it isn't their cock."

Maraiya shuddered. "Why would anyone do that? Why is it that every time I read about magic and rituals someone ends up gelded at the end?"

"That is the mystery!" Syronos chuckled. "Alas, my lady Bell, this world is filled with many strange and irrational men with the most peculiar ideas." He knelt and began to work on the chains used to bind the doors shut. "Such as the very man who rescued me from that place. One might call him eccentric, but what else do you call a Westerosi who walks and sails from one end of the known world to the other at the cost of a comfortable castle?"

"He was a highborn then?" Maraiya picked up on the implication.

"He was, though you wouldn't know that from meeting him." Syronos undid the chains and set them aside, opening the cellar doors. "But he was a well learned man, that much was obvious. And he had such stories to tell about the place he came from."

"Perhaps I may have heard of him." Maraiya suggested. "What was his name?"

"That, he made me swore to never share, perhaps for fear of his family looking for him." Syronos admitted, stepping down into the darkness. "But I can tell you that the family he came from is of great wealth, lofty expectations and cast a great shadow that he sought to escape from."

"I think he and I would sympathize in that regard." Maraiya nodded, leaning forward to peer into the cellar. "Can you at least tell me the name of the place where he found you?"

"The village I was born to was named Monte." Syronos replied, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to look back up at her. "The land I hail from…" He grimaced. "Have you ever heard of Asshai by the Shadow?"

"I have."

Syronos put a hand over his heart. "I hail from the Shadow." He told her. "I was not simply being poetic when I said I was born in darkness, Lady Maraiya. Now if you will pardon me, I must have words with the man who dared to wield your family's sword."

Xxx

The Bolton man-at-arms gasped as he was hauled up out of a tub of ice cold water.

"Let's try again." Syronos said, motioning for the two men responsible for holding the prisoner to refrain from dunking the man again. "The man's name is Steelshanks, and I already know he is in the Dreadfort. All I want from you is a description of him. Hardly sensitive information, no?"

Coughing up water, the man shook his head. "Go- go fuck yourself, you foreign whoreson!"

"Really now?" Syronos rolled his eyes and motioned for the man to be dunked again and held under until his struggles grew frantic. "If you wish to insult me, at least have something creative to say. Now, this Steelshanks Walton would turn you over if your positions were reversed. He'd think nothing of surrendering a low born man of your rank, so why do you torture yourself by protecting something as minuscule as his likeness?"

The man-at-arms had been enduring this treatment for several hours now. Syronos was careful not to let him get so cold as to suffer anything that might make him sick. It wouldn't do him or Stannis any good to lose a prisoner to illness. Syronos had extracted some knowledge from him easily early on, all of it things that were already well known.

There were two hosts divided between Winterfell and the Dreadfort.

Houses Ryswell and Dustin had sworn their forces to the Flayed Man.

House Flint of Flint's Finger was in talks to join, led by the bastard brother of Robin Flint (it seemed the heirs to both branches had shared both names and fates).

House Frey was sending additional reinforcements to bolster the Bolton's armies- though Syronos doubted that his claim of the other Riverlands Houses sending ten thousand men held any merit. At most the Freys would send half their own levies, fifteen-hundred to two thousand. The rest would be needed to hold the Crossing with its hostages and besiege Riverrun. He let the man believe that his lie had been bought, though.

Sansa Stark, now Sansa Bolton, was married to Ramsay Bolton in her ancestral home and now lived there with him.

The bodies of Rickon and Brandon Stark had been found at Winterfell after Ramsay took it from the Ironborn- another lie if Jon Snow's expedition yielded results, but no reason to let the man think that anyone else believed in the possible survival of a trueborn son of House Stark yet.

It was just a simple description of Steelshanks Walton that the man drew the line on. He'd tried to deny ever meeting him, but Chief Wull had sent foragers back to check the bodies of his companions for anything of use and found with it parchment granting them right to enter homes and keeps if they suspected enemies of House Bolton to be sheltered within. It was signed by Steelshanks himself and the prisoner himself had one on his person, bringing this claim into question. Syronos had been willing to believe that Walton had not handed these out personally, but the man's reaction to being shown it had been telling enough.

"I won't talk." The man whispered, shaking his head. "Won't talk. Never."

"So you've said." Syronos agreed and had him dunked once more, waiting slightly longer than before. "I tell you what. It pains me to see a loyal man like yourself suffer over such a meager detail, so I offer you this: I shall stop this barbarism, grant you a nice warm fire to sleep by and some food to fill your belly. Come morning, we will let you go with enough supplies to last you several days. More than enough to get back to the nearest Bolton held keep or village for a well trained tracker such as yourself, yes?"

The man hesitantly nodded, his wide eyes tracking Syronos suspiciously as the Bravo strutted past his field of vision.

"I swear upon the gods old or new, whichever you favour, that I shall grant you this." Syronos leaned towards the man. "In exchange for one detail about Steelshanks. You can pick whichever it is: his hair colour, eye colour, a scar, whether he is tall or short…anything. It's hardly a betrayal to share that, as I'd never be able to use it to identify him, and if I were to be lying then I'd lose any hope of getting you to share anything with me. I'd be better off killing you, which I imagine would please such a zealously loyal man as you."

After some moments of the man being trapped in an internal debate.

"Decisions. Decisions." Syronos commented.

"Tall." The man blurted out. "He's tall."

"Taller than you?"

"Aye." The man nodded quickly. "About the same as you."

"I see…" Syronos nodded and clapped his hands twice, causing the men to move the bound prisoner away from the tub. "Remove his bindings, have some food and proper clothing brought to him. When night comes, have him moved somewhere warm to rest. When morning comes, see to it that he is given what he was promised and escorted as far out as a league in any direction he wishes to go."

Looking at the man with a smile, Syronos bowed his head. "On my honour as a Free Blade of Braavos and in the name of the gods old, new and many faced, I promise that tomorrow you will walk out of this village a free man and guaranteed safe passage back to your allies. Thank you for your cooperation."

As soon as he stepped out he found Chief Wull glowering at him. "You're letting him go." He whispered, following after Syronos. "Just like that?"

"There was nothing more he could offer, save for reporting back to his Lord." Syronos replied, not breaking stride. "If that man gets back to Bolton lands he will have three options: to claim he had escaped the ambush and tended his own wounds, that he escape confinement after being treated or to be truthful. In any case the Boltons will know for sure that Maraiya Bell is beyond their reach. How they react to that will give us more insight."

Hugo Wull nodded slowly. "I think I get what you mean…"

Syronos mimicked the Chief for a few moments. "…no you don't."

"Not one fuckin' bit."

"Imagine that you are the one hiring a sell sword company. You are counting on them to remain a surprise in order to win a great battle." Syronos proposed. "Suddenly, someone tells your enemies where, when and how many of these sell swords will arrive far in advance, giving them more than enough time to plan for their arrival. What would you do, knowing this?"

"Besides gettin' pissed?" The Chief tugged at his beard a bit. "Probably try a new plan."

"Exactly." Syronos said with a satisfied smile. "The Boltons have been holding back in the hopes of retaining enough of their forces until this mercenary army to arrive, counting on Stannis being equally cautious until their reinforcements arrived. If that hope is dashed, they will need to attack us now in the hopes of keeping Stannis' armies too focused on confronting them to act on this knowledge. Or begin shoring up their holdings while keeping us on the defensive with asymmetrical warfare. Skirmish raids on supply lines, attacks and sieges of Baratheon held keeps and villages, anything to force us to turn our attention to more immediate matters. And if they don't do that…"

"Then they might have something else planned." Hugo concluded. "Well fuck, when did war get this complex? Could've sworn the Young Wolf didn't have to worry about all this."

"I think the Young Wolf not worrying about this is what allowed Roose Bolton to betray him." Syronos sighed sadly. "Military leaders like Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon may be brilliant in directing armies, but they need men who consider the less straight-forward aspects of conflict. In the Free Cities, wars between one city and another are more often fought in the dark by backroom deals, secret political alliances, spies, assassins and saboteurs than by grand armies battering down gates and walls. We of Braavos are particularly accustomed to this."

"Still a big headache." The Big Bucket muttered.

"Would another round of drinks cure that headache?" Syronos offered.

Hugo chuckled. "Aye," he nodded, "that might about do it."

Xxx

 **4** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Morgund'dur, Skane**

Jon healed quickly by the standards of men. Quicker will whenever he dominated Orc or beast, seeming to draw a trickle of vital energies from them to aid his own recovery. This gave him the perfect excuse to spend the next several hours exploring Morgund'dur's baileys, marking important landmarks and sites such as the largest forges, barracks, storage sheds and cazarin pens. His encounter seemed to have stirred the denizens of the fortress, as it no longer seemed quite as abandoned as when he'd first set foot in it.

Orcs came in many shapes and sizes. Some were tall and lanky, others broad at the shoulders or around the gut. Their skin ranged from sickly green or white to yellow or bordering on being itch black. Few if any lacked battle scars or deformities in one form or another. Some had tufts of hair poking out from their scalp, others had longer and heavily greased curtains usually tied into braids and some even had full grown beards. Given their apparent shared ancestry with the First Men, this level of variation came as little surprise to Jon.

They fought one another for fun or over slights, usually leading to bloodshed (which occurred no less than three times as Jon passed overhead). The whispers he heard from eavesdropping told him that this was not limited to the rank and file, but to these Captains like Lobra the Wolf and his own rivals.

They were an army with no enemy to fight, left to hold a lonely castle on an isolated island with the only potential targets protected by winged death. It was little wonder that these Orcs, the genuine savages that they were, satisfied their boredom by killing one another.

"What manner of magic could take a man and turn him into…this?" Jon asked in disgust, standing atop a rampart now unoccupied, save for him and the bodies of two sentries.

"That which lays in wait." The Stranger answered, pointing to the towering keep. "We've dallied long enough. Let us be done with this."

Jon took in the sight of…everything and thought back to how he had come to stand here, on ground where no Northman had walked in centuries and seen things that he never would have believed if his introduction to the concept of magic and monsters had not been near strangulation by the grip of a frozen corpse.

"What am I doing here?" He whispered.

He had sailed from East-Watch with one goal, simple and straight forward: find Rickon, bring him back and give Stannis the support of the Free Folk and the few Northern Houses still refusing to take a side.

In barely a week that goal had been usurped from its spot as Jon's priority. He'd treated with the Skagosi, stayed among the Skani, fought a dragon and its rider and was now on some monster hunt in the middle of a fortress that shouldn't exist. It hadn't struck him until now just how far off course he had gone from his original task, how many times he'd willingly shouldered added toil and risk to himself and his company and rationalized its necessity at every turn.

Perhaps being mauled by cazarin had knocked his head around enough for him to finally see sense.

"I should have just scoured Skagos for Rickon myself." Jon stated in frustration. "I should already be back in the North and taking back Winterfell!"

"It was you who urged caution and patience." The Stranger reminded him. "Your overall goal has not changed, Jon Snow."

"Hasn't it?" Jon challenged. "All I wanted was to bring my brother home."

"You seek to protect the realms of man?" The Stranger challenged. "Then tell me that this Lord of Morgund'dur is no less of a threat, if ever the Sheepstealer should no longer be here to keep it in check."

Without their dragon to protect them, the Skani wouldn't last a day if the events leading to what was construed as the original Feast of Skane were any indication. The Skagosi wouldn't last much longer if this darkness were to escalate from harassing them at night to conquering their island as it had done here. What would stop it from moving onward to Westeros' mainland, starting with the North?

 _Damn him,_ Jon thought, _damn him for being right._

"Then let it be done with." Jon leapt through the air and navigated his way over roof tops to the wall encircling the keep, once again patrolled by bowmen who were of little obstacle to him.

It was only when he'd leapt down into the court yard beyond that he spotted Lobra the Wolf. Jon hid behind a wagon stacked with casks of liquid that permeated the air with a foul odour that burnt his nostrils before he constrained his mortal reflex to draw breath. Close by, atop a set of stair leading to a currently open gate into the keep, Lobra was patting the head of a cazarin that had sustained a burn to the side of its face- not much unlike the handprint mark that Jon had left him with.

"How'd you useless maggots let this happen?!" He demanded of three Orcs standing before him.

"We-we tried to stop him, boss!" One of them attempted to explain. "But he killed the rest of the boys! We barely got away!"

"So you decided your own hides meant more than my mounts?" Lobra snarled, grabbing the Orc by the neck and lifting him off his feet. "I ought to chop you up and feed you to 'em for this, but lucky for you I'm feeling generous today. So here's what happens: you three are going to gather up a few more riders, and then as soon as I give the word we're going to show Vulg and his lot what we do with cazarin haters like 'em."

He gave the Orc a good shake and tossed him away. "Now get to it before I change my mind!"

Jon recounted what he'd learned of Lobra during his brief stay in the Orc's head. Aside from a newly developed aversion to flames, the Black Rider cared dearly for his cazarin. A touching virtue that paled against a mountain of vices. Lobra was named for training packs of cazarin to behave and work in coordination as they chased down and killed their prey…not unlike a wolf. He'd earned the name riding atop one and directing four more to run down an enemy of his during a skirmish.

 _For such a pathetic creature, I may have been fortunate to find him._

Seeing that Lobra was alone for now, Jon approached quietly and gave a soft whistle. The Captain spun about with a snarl that vanished as soon as he sighted the source. Thankfully he possessed the sense to not bellow, instead hurrying over to Jon's hiding spot.

"Master! I've done as you commander." Lobra informed him. "The others bought my story, the lot of 'em!"

"And what of your other objective?" Jon demanded.

"I've got plenty to tell you!" Eager to please, the Captain leaned in and whispered. "There's some new runt named Vulg. Killed his Captain and took his spot, he did. Runs one of the big forges. Now he's looking to push in on my territory. Look what he did to Mugs!" He gestured to the cazarin, which whined and kept its head bowed as it followed after its master. "My favourite mount, he is."

"Information." Jon hissed.

"Right!" Lobra nodded, turning back to face him. "Vulg's a skinny twig of a fighter. Soft in the head, so he wears some helmet with extra padding to protect it, but a good solid blow leaves him spinning. Fancies himself a pyromancer he does, lights his weapons on fire by dousing 'em in oil, then-" He snapped his fingers and made a hissing sound. "Same with his bodyguards. Never goes anywhere without 'em."

 _That gives this Vulg an advantage over Lobra._ Jon realized, recounting the Wolf's new fear of fire.

"Anything else?" He pressed.

"Nothing useful- yet." Lobra clarified. "But after I deal with Vulg and his boys, I'll have mine work over any survivors to find out what they know." He bared his rotting teeth in a grin. "Like I always say, master: no tongue what can't be loosened without witnessing a good cazarin mauling."

"Good to know for later, should we meet this Vulg." The Stranger noted. "That the Lord of this castle does seemingly nothing to curb this infighting is convenient."

Jon nodded. "Good work." He told Lobra. "Continue as ordered."

"Of course, master!" Lobra nodded quickly. "And if you've the time and inclination, don't feel shy about joining in on the hunt."

 _I don't intend to be here long enough for that._

"Noted." Jon waved him away. "Now go."

Lobra mounted Mugs and urged the simpering cazarin out through the gatehouse nearby. Jon was left with nothing between him and the entrance to the keep now, an enticing prospect which he didn't immediately act upon. A quick glance through the Wraith World revealed that there was nobody in hiding. No guards behind the murder holes in the sides or on the ceiling, none at the gate mechanism…it was entirely unprotected.

"Either this Lord is incredibly confident or incredibly foolish." Jon commented.

"Against an inferior foe, assume nothing." The Stranger said as they walked through together. "Against a superior foe, assume anything."

The corridors of Morgund'dur's keep were just like the rest of the fortress: cavernous, built of black stone and designed to be the stuff of nightmares for children. It was eerily quiet, save for the occasional breath that Jon took which seemed to reverberate down the shadowed passages. Jon found himself in a great hall of sorts complete with rows of tables where scraps of food and broken open casks of the same foul concoction from outside were left unfinished, surrounded by buzzing insects.

"Still no guards." Jon whispered, keeping a hand on Longclaw's hilt.

"No guards to guard, no servants to serve and yet a feast was held here quite recently." The Stranger supplied as Jon examined the steep flights of stairs that led off to adjacent sections of the fortress through passages that lacked any hint of light. "Perhaps our intrusion roused the garrison from their merriment. We should have questioned Lobra further."

It was not an accusation against Jon, but an admission that both of them had erred in taking advantage of their new servant. His glimpse into the Orc's mind had confirmed that he would know little to nothing on the Lord of Morgund'dur himself, but there had been other avenues to follow which had gone completely ignored in Jon's growing impatience. Shortsightedness had been the bane and downfall of his family in the last several years, and he would do well to be rid of it.

A knife left on the floor was touched by Jon's boot and sent sliding across the floor, clanging against a table leg. The sound echoed throughout the cavernous feasting hall, rippling through every passage and into other parts of the deathly silent fortress. Jon froze with one hand on Longclaw, his eyes darting between the other passages for signs of life.

Flickers of torch light came from one, the largest passage towards the back of the room, then from three other side passages. Jon knelt down low and looked for the nearest route of escape only to find that an orange glow could be found in every one of them, save the one he'd entered through. For half a beat he was tempted to retreat, but to do so would put more time between him and finding Rickon.

Then his eyes glanced upwards. The feast hall was already as high as three stories, but it reached further up yet to what seemed like a mezzanine. He unslung the Fist from his belt and flung it high into the air, watching it slowly lose momentum and begin to arch down. Remembering his fight with the cazarin, Jon reached out…and found himself grasping the Fist by its handle, airborne and falling the last few feet to the mezzanine where he landed with a roll.

Back on the floor with the abandoned feast, Orcs shuffled out into view, faces shrouded by black helmets as they sniffed the air and held torches up to shed light on the shadows between or under the tables. There were no less than twelve already combing the room.

 _Not so abandoned as it seems._ Jon looked to the larger passage at the back of the room and found a similar one on the upper level with stairs that dipped downwards, hopefully to converge where the lower passage would lead to.

Creeping down the stairway, Jon became aware of the distant beating of drums which only grew louder as he went further into the bowels of Morgund'dur. First one, then several…then it seemed as if Jon would find himself before hundreds with how overwhelming the noise was.

And then, without warning: it all fell silent, leaving him in darkness and silence before he reached the foot of the stairs to enter what appeared to be a throne room. He stood on a landing overlooking the chamber, with a side passage to either side and railings of black stone separating him from a fall. Two flights of stairs moved diagonally to the level below where the passage to the feast hall's lower level lay.

The throne room itself was made of three distinct tiers marked by further rises linked by steps, each level adorned with colossal pillars that jutted upwards towards a ceiling that could not be seen. Torches with pale green embers hung from these supports, casting a pale glow across the room. Towards the highest point of the room there was a shaft of light sweeping in from an opening in the back wall that fell upon a great stygian seat that was laden with edges that would compete with the Iron Throne.

There was no one, yet Jon could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. Nothing should have been beyond his wraith eyes, yet his unease would go unresolved as he checked his surroundings, making his way to the lowest landing where he found figures carved directly into the floor.

Suddenly, Jon became aware of what felt like red hot iron being pressed to his chest. He scrambled and pulled from beneath the layers of his clothing the weirwood talisman given to him by Baldric Magnar. The pale bark felt hot to the touch and it's eyes were emitting a glare to match the torches.

It also brought to Jon's attention something that had escaped his notice: shapes upon the floor etched into the black stone and filled with a crystalline substance that caught the light of the talisman.

"Magnar's gift appears to have a use." The Stranger appeared, gazing down at the etchings. "And it appears that our host has a story to tell."

What Jon would have passed over in ignorance appeared to be depictions of events. He could divine the shape of men and other creatures, yet his eyes struggled to adjust enough to see more of the complex shapes clearly.

"What is it?" He whispered, looking to the Stranger for clarification.

"It tells of…this," spectral fingers brushed over the shape of a being with its arms upraised, surrounded by what looked like tongues of fire and other smaller figures. "A being of fire. A deity."

He carried on further to Jon's right, his boots making no sound as they dragged across the floor. "A conflict." He narrated, passing over many figures locked in combat, chief among them the fire deity and flocks of winged creatures that resembled depictions of dragons that Jon remembered from his history lessons surrounding the Dance of Dragons.

"And it appears that this being of fire lost." The Stranger settled upon an image of the once mighty and glorious fire deity now lay low, chained and surrounded by his enemies.

"Is this the Red God that you despise so?" Jon asked.

The Stranger snorted, the ghost of a smirk creeping onto his heavily wrinkled face. "If only. Then his pets would trouble us no more." The smirk fell away as he looked towards Jon. "He is here!"

A cold gust of wind brushed past, seeming to steal Jon's breath away. Longclaw in hand, he turned to the empty throne at the head of the room to find that it was now occupied by a lone figure.

"I bid you welcome to my domain, child of man." The voice carried to Jon in spite of how softly it spoke, each word like a breath of tainted air from a crypt long sealed. "Few have been so bold as to risk trespassing upon my land, yet none before you have reached as far as here." Pale hands clad in dark sleeves rose up from the throne's shadow and slowly clapped together, each strike sharply echoing. "I congratulate you for your fortitude."

Those hands came to rest upon the arms of the dark throne. "But why? Why would one so short lived seek to end their life all the quicker?"

Jon was holding Longclaw so tightly that he was almost afraid of crushing the hilt in his grasp. "I am Jon Snow of Winterfell." He introduced himself. "Are you the Lord of Morgund'dur?"

"I am." The lone figure replied, one digit tipped by a razor sharp nail slowly dragging across the shapes of skulls embedded directly into the seat. "You may address me as Tar-Medine, Lord of Morgund'dur and King of Skane."

The torches flickered, going out one by one until the only light left shone upon the Lord of Morgund'dur. "And he whose home you have intruded upon."

Jon's tongue took a moment to unwind itself. "I…have come to deliver terms to you." He declared, his hands shaking. "The men of both Skane and Skagos have suffered at the hands of a monster that calls this place home. As Lord of Morgund'dur you are responsible for these atrocities and shall answer for them. My terms are simple: your armies are to disband and you and your pet monster are to depart from these shores, never to return or trouble the people of these lands again."

If only he felt as brave as he sounded.

"Fail to heed these demands and you shall be met with bloodshed." Jon finished his ultimatum.

A low chuckle drifted out from Tar-Medine's shadowed face. "You come to issue commands to me? In the heart of my domain? I am torn between admiring your courage…and laughing at your presumption."

Pressing their hands to the arms of the throne, a tall, dark haired man adorned in black cloth and armour emerged into the light which showed an unearthly beauty in the man's facial features. Pronounced cheekbones, sharp jaw, slanted brows and symmetric features cantered around dark eyes beneath a black spiked crown. The sort of face that Sansa would have swooned for whilst envisioning it upon the visage of an imagined heroic knight from one of her tales.

"I have an offer of my own, Jon Snow of Winterfell." Tar-Medine took slow steps down towards him, almost appearing to float off the floor with how silent and smooth his motions were. "My Orcs May have never seen the lands beyond the hills to the south and the sea to the north, east and west…but I've other eyes and ears who carry word to me."

Jon kept the pale man to his front even as he slowly moved off to the side, aware of dark eyes remaining locked onto him.

"A Great War. A kingdom torn apart. And…an ancient bloodline betrayed and whittled down..." Tar-Medine mused. "…and a rising hero, an aspiring sorcerer wielding powers not seen since the Wall was young. A…Grave Walker..."

The thing that stood over him was not a man. It wore the shape of a man, spoke as a man and walked as a man and yet every step that brought it closer filled Jon with a dread he had not felt since the longhouse in Hardhome, coming face to face with a White Walker for the first time.

"How fortunate that you have come here. The Starks of Winterfell are said to be no more, yet I feel in you blood both old and new, coursing with magic that seeks to shine." Tar-Medine said. "You must certainly seek revenge for your slain kin."

"What I seek is none of your concern." Jon replied sharply.

"Even when I hold within my grasp the means by which you can claim it?" Tar-Medine stopped at the final flight and slowly eased himself down into a seated position at its highest point. "What do you truly care for the stone men and spiderlings of these islands? What have they to offer you for your service that I cannot provide in greater abundance?"

 _Rickon…_

"The Fire-Wing, their protector. You have seen him, fought him even…" Tar-Medine grinned, seeing through Jon's silent demeanour. "Then you know he is weak, suckling strength from the Heartree of Ashcrowne. I cannot face him so far from my fortress, but you…are not so constricted, are you? You have the means to end that nuisance for good. Do so…an I shall gift to you everything you need."

One hand was held up. "An army to command…"

The other soon followed. "And Command over yourself." Tar-Medine stood up and made his way down to Jon's level. "You are still but a fledgling, unaware of just what you hold at your finger tips. I can show you, help you master your powers…what use will you have for any of these weak willed vermin and their petulant agendas when I can give you an army that will never desert or dissolve, one that will march with you across all of Westeros…"

Jon hadn't realized it, but he'd lowered Longclaw and allowed Tar-Medine to close the distance enough to lay his hands upon Jon's shoulders. "You could rule it all. Avenge your family, retake your home and crown yourself King." The thing pretending to be a man whispered into his ear. "I can give it all to you…if you rid me of my last tormentor. Do it…and not even the Old One and his minions shall be able to trouble you."

 _King Jon…King Jon Stark…King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men…long may he reign…_

Jon could envision it: him, seated upon the Iron Throne with millions kneeling at his feet. The same pathetic, self righteous lords who sneered at him for his name and the people who lived under their yokes. He saw himself, an undying and unrelenting monarch who could bring the full force of Wetseros to bear against the White Walkers. No more compromises, no more false promises and hollow words of fealty. He could make them do as he willed, dominate their hearts and minds…

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Then he saw himself atop the Wall…Ygritte in his arms and the feeling of freedom for the first time in his life…Ygritte in his arms with an arrow through her chest and the feeling of true heartbreak cutting him to the bone.

 _We never should have left that cave._

Ygritte, his untameable first love…how ashamed would she be to know what he desired in the deepest, darkest corners of his heart?

Jon stepped away and held Longclaw to Tar-Medine's throat. "Silence!" He barked. "You will not ensnare me with your bribery. My terms are set: leave. Now. Or die."

Tar-Medine softly sighed, a glimmer of sadness in his dark eyes. "…so be it."

Jon was flung back without ever being touched by anything. He slammed into the railing of one stairway and felt it crumble under him before he was flung onto the stone steps.

"So very unwise of you." Tar-Medine held one arm out to his side where a sword seemingly appeared from thin air, a long and thin implement that he held tip-first towards Jon where he lay sprawled. "So. Very. Unwise."

Jon batted the blade aside and shot to his feet before propelling himself far over his opponent, hearing the dark blade sing through the air inches beneath him. He twisted before landing and wreathed his blade in emerald flames as he brought it down, missing by a hair's breath as Tar-Medine sidestepped with casual ease and grace before jabbing forward to leave a cut on Jon's right cheek. Recoiling away at the icy sting of the blade's kiss, Jon felt the same thing he'd experienced when he lay impaled upon a Walker's blade…weakness.

"What…is that?" He breathed, keeping Tar-Medine at a safe distance.

"Did you think that you were suddenly unkillable?" The pale man chuckled, circling him like a falcon preparing to dive as Jon kept turning to keep him to his front. "Poor little Grave Walker…I almost feel sorry to tell you this, but as far as your kind goes among those who wield true power…you're rather closer to the lower end of the hierarchy. Allow me to demonstrate."

Jon parried another jab and tried to riposte, but struck only thin air and only narrowly stepped back out of reach of his foe's next strike. It was all that he could do to keep from being cut to pieces as Tar-Medine practically danced around him with inhuman grace, using only one hand to meet Jon blow for blow with equal strength or greater. In all of his years from sparring in Winterfell to fighting against Wildlings and Wights he'd never seen anything move like this…not only his physical equal but superior.

"You Starks always lacked ambition."

Jon gasped as the dark blade slid across his side, cutting through leather and chain.

"You built the largest kingdom of seven and yet you were so quick to stop."

Their blades locked and Jon wrestled to force his opponent's down towards the floor. Tar-Medine leaned in towards him, eyes now emitting a smouldering orange glow.

"Instead you sat and _stagnated_." It hissed through razor teeth. "You grew _weak_ and now you've lost _everything_ that the greatest of you worked so hard to build. You aren't Direwolves, but pale little pups playing at being Lords and Kings."

Jon snarled and removed one hand from Longclaw to deliver a punch, but Tar-Medine did the same and caught his hand, stopping it cold before bending it back at the wrist.

"Failures." Tar-Medine wrenched Jon's arm out to one side and spun, flinging Jon off his feet and face first into the nearest pillar where he crumbled among fragments of black stone. "Naïve fools hung up on honour, squandering one gift after another, forgetting what made you great. I offered you the chance to reclaim it all and you spurned me."

Jon pulled himself back up along the pillar and managed to bring Longclaw up to narrowly block a downwards chop before Tar-Medine slipped its blade under Longclaw's guard and forced it down where it could pin the Valyrian steel to the floor with one foot. Then, before Jon could even think to react, it stabbed him through the chest and pinned him to the pillar as he let out a strangled cry.

"And now," Tar-Medine looked down apathetically where Jon lay half-upright, "you will die knowing that yours was the final failure of your line, Jon Snow."

Jon struggled to form words, the feeling of ice water spreading out from his chest and towards every extremity. His fingers shivered as they wrapped around the leather bound handle of the Fist of the First Men…and then ripped it away from his belt and hit the pillar he was pinned to. The dark stone rippled and fractured as the hammer executed the one thing that Jon was thinking of…

 _Break._

From its foundation to its top the pillar shattered into millions of pieces which began to rain down. Tar-Medine scowled and raised one arm up as he quickly moved away, pulling the dark blade with him. Jon gasped and swung the Fist down next, causing sections of the floor around him to sharply rise up in the shape of spikes and further push the Lord of Morgund'dur back.

In the aftermath a thick cloud of dust filled the throne room, clearing after a short time to reveal Gar-Medine standing unharmed among the rubble, a displeased expression on his face.

"Well…that I wasn't expecting." He said, and looked to the upper sending where several of his guards now stood. "Hunt him down."

They raced away, sending out war cries that would be heard in every corner of the keep and quickly spread across all of fortress as alarm bells rang and sentries stood at alert.

Xxx

The keep's front gate was quickly set to close, but Jon slid out feet first and groaned as he climbed to his feet, one hand over his most recent stab wound.

"I'm not- healing!" He gasped, struggling to stay upright.

"That thing wields sorcery that can end us. It is beyond us!" The Stranger barked. "Rise, Jon Snow! To arms!"

Orcs were closing in around him already. Jon held Longclaw in one hand and raced forward, each step agonizing to take. He stopped and side stepped a jab with a spear before stabbing his attacker through the throat and pulling back, leaving them to clutch at their neck and fall to their knees while he shoved past them. Another came at him with an axe, forcing Jon to remove the hand covering his wound and slap it over the orc's face, searing their flesh and drawing some strength from them, enough that he was able to move without fear of collapsing while the orc, now wearing his brand, turned to attack his former allies with fervor.

"For the Master!" The axe wielder cackled, taking off an arm and then a head before he was riddled with arrows from the battlements, which slowly filled with arbalests that took aim as Jon raced for the wall, finding the gates sealed before him.

Taking out the Fist, Jon flung it towards a formation of four arbalests and reappeared over them. He struck downwards as he landed and shattered the wall under their feet, sending three plummeting into the yard below while the fourth became Jon's next servant, further nourishing him on a long road towards recovery.

"Go, my lord!" The arbalests croaked, shooting an orc that emerged from the neares stairway. "Go!"

 _How quick they are to be turned against comrades._ Jon vaulted over the battlements and raced through the streets of the inner bailey with Orcs immediately moving to stop him, forcing him to dart around, vault over or quickly dispatch them in a way that wouldn't slow him down. Bolts from the roof tops dotted the ground behind him while one managed to land in his back, staggering him before he tore it out and branded a bowman both to replenish himself and give him some cover.

 _Almost to the bridge. Almost to the bridge!_

Another fling of the hammer brought him to the ramparts overlooking the gate and the gorge that it spanned. Beyond that and the outer bailey Jon could see green forests and foothills that would be easy to lose any further pursuers in. He reared back his arm to let the Fist of the First Men fly-

Suddenly a shadow fell over him, then Jon was slammed by something immense that flung him off of the wall. As he spun through the air he caught sight of a great dark mass that perched itself where he'd been standing. Then he slammed down into the bridge and his vision flashed red for several moments. As his sight returned he strained to move in spite of every muscle and bone in him shrieking in protest.

The shadow fell over him again as something landed on the bridge next to him, something great in size.

 _Is this the monster they speak of?_

Jon tried to turn over to get a look at it, but the shadow receded until the sun shone on Jon once again. He finally managed to roll onto his back to find himself right on one edge of the bridge, one arm and leg hanging limply off of it as Tar-Medine approached him with no monster in sight, his hands folded behind his waist and a cold smile on his face, the folds of his dark robes billowing in the wind.

"Fighting spirit has at least not abandoned you entirely." He said. "I will grant you this, Jon Snow: you have at least granted Brandon's line a dignified ending."

Clenching his jaw, Jon turned over to stand up. Orcs poured onto the bridge, dozens of them surrounding him in a semi-circle while their lord held them back with a single hand. Seeing Longclaw close by, he held out a hand and grabbed it around the hilt-

CRUNCH!

Only to hold up less than a third of the blade, which was now broken with the rest laying under Tar-Medina's heel…broken as easily as brittle glass. Jon gaped at the sight, unable to accept that the strongest known alloy in the world was shattered as easily as snapping a twig underfoot.

"What…are you…?" He whispered.

"There is no shame in what comes next." Tar-Medine told him sincerely, conjuring his dark blade yet again. "Farewell, Jon Snow of Winterfell."

The dark blade was held up high, tip poised to stab down into Jon where he lay.

 _It can't end like this._

Rickon would never see home again. The North would remain shattered without a son of Ned Stark. Stannis might still win but he would never hold the North Without House Stark. He might not even defeat the Boltons at all. The Watch would be forsaken, the Free Folk slaughtered-

Baby Aemon and Val would die.

 _It can't end like this!_

The Long Night would return and wash over every land from the Wall to Dorne, from Old Town to King's Landing. Tens of millions would be added to the Night King's army, which may yet still cross the Narrow Sea to Essos, to Sothoros and beyond. One by one, man would be extinguished from the world.

 _IT CAN'T END LIKE THIS!_

Then Jon felt it nearby, behind the rows of Orcs. Even if it was not in his hand he was still bound to it in a way that distance would not easily sever.

Tar-Medine stabbed down only to strike solid stone. With a frown he looked around and saw Jon rise into view amidst the ranks of startled Orcs…the Fist of the First Men held high overhead and crackling with lightning.

Dark eyes widened slightly. "…oh."

Jon swung down, and shattered the entire bridge from end to end.

Xxx

Out in the hills beyond Morgund'dur, Tormund Giantsbane stopped as he heard what sounded like the rumble of thunder…on a day without any clouds in sight.

Next to him, a panting Davos Seaworth looked about. "I know there's no storm close enough for that."

"Look." Tormund pointed to the distant shape of the dark fortress where lightning flashed…upwards from some point within, triggering more rumbling. "Is that normal this far out on the sea?"

Davos shook his head. "No. No it isn't."

Tormund drew his sword and hurried down the trail. "C'mon!" He grunted. "Snow's gotten into trouble, I know it!"

Groaning as he wiped sweat from his brow, Davos wished that he'd insisted on bringing a horse or two with them. "When isn't he in trouble?"

Xxx

End of Chapter

 _Medine_ , Eater, or Devourer. Derived from the Sindarin word _Mad_ (Eat) And _Medi_ (to Eat)


	19. Chapter 18: Hard Truths

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

I'm adding this little bit in for my own convenience: an approximate account of the military forces of the North.

 **Total Strength:** According to a semi-canon source the North can field about 45 000 troops, matched by the Vale, Riverlands and Dorne. The geographical size and low population density of the North makes it difficult to summon this full host. As the nature of a medieval styled era makes a national census impossible I will say for this setting that the North may summon at absolute full strength of 45 000 (Effective Military Strength) to 50 000 (Total Military Strength from scraping the bottom of every last proverbial barrel) to account for any inconsistencies between this and canon.

 **Expended Strength:** At the start of the War of Five Kings, Robb Stark departed from Winterfell with approximately 12 000 men and was joined by another 6000 by the time they reached Moat Cailin where 1500 Manderly fighters join them, bringing the army's numbers to just under 20 000. Of this host, one in five Northmen were estimated to have returned to the North, most of them Bolton men. Therefore the North has lost about 16 000 men, just over one third of their effective military strength and been left with between 29 000 (Effective Military Strength) and 34 000 (Total Military Strength)

 **Remaining Strength:** Of the approximate 29 000 or more Northmen that can be readily conscripted into service, I've divided their numbers among the following Houses. These won't be exact, just estimations based on sources from the books and internet as well as my own intuition based on the strength of greater houses such as House Frey, Bolton, etc. I make no claims of being knowledgable in these matters and am only typing this to firmly establish the overall power of the various factions in the North.

 **The Bolton Coalition: Projected strength of 13 400-16 500.**

House Bolton and its Bannermen: 4000-4500, most of them heavy infantry and bowmen. House Bolton's levies made up the majority of the Northmen who returned from the Riverlands, and still had a considerable presence in the North commanded by Ramsay Snow until his father's return, indicating Roose Bolton may have withheld a good portion of his levies.

House Dustin and its Bannermen: 3000-3500, most of them light infantry supported by heavy cavalry. The majority of House Dustin's levies were held back during the war.

House Ryswell and its Bannermen: 2000-2500, most of them infantry supported by light cavalry. The majority of House Ryswell's levies were held back during the war.

House Karstark and its Bannermen: 1500-2000. The Karstarks donated three hundred horsemen and almost two thousand infantry for the War of Five Kings, and would have taken significant casualties alongside the other houses before their host broke away following the execution of Rickard Karstark, allowing time to return home more intact than some houses but less than House Bolton. The majority of the remaining levies followed Arnolf and Cregan Karstark.

Other assorted minor houses, clans and free riders: 1500-2000.

House Frey levies led by Aenys and Hosteen Frey: 1400-2000.

In total: At least 12 000 Northmen and 1400 Rivermen make up the Bolton Army, scattered mainly between Winterfell and the Dreadfort.

 **House Baratheon Army: Projected strength of 19 700-22 500**

Levies from the Stormlands, Reach and Crownlands: 1000-1300. Following the Battle of the Blackwater Stannis' total strength was projected at 1500 men on Dragonstone (half of them Florent soldiers) and 300 in Storm's End. He took most of his men to the Wall.

Mercenary Companies: 4000-5000. With funding from the Iron Bank, Stannis secured the service of a number of sellsword companies to augment his depleted forces. Among these are the Free Blades Of Braavos, who number around 800. Other mercenary companies have similar numbers, with none of them being greater than 1000 fighters.

The Mountain Clans: 2800-3000. Taken from the books where Jon Snow recommends the Clans to Stannis Baratheon and gives them a broad projection of three thousand warriors with some losses since then.

House Glover and its Bannermen: 1500-2000. House Glover sustained heavy casualties during the War of Five Kings, particularly under Robett Glover's command at Duskendale where 1000 Northmen were killed and many more slain in the retreat by Gregor Clegane's forces. House Forrester among other loyal houses lost further soldiers at the Red Wedding, and again after the murder of Ethan Forrester by Ramsay Bolton. Between survivors of the Northern army returning home, the remaining levies scattered across the Wolfswood and the return of House Forrester's scattered soldiers (who are included in this amount due to the Forresters status as bannermen of Deepwood Motte) House Glover is at half of its original strength at best.

House Mormont and its Bannermen: 1400-1800. I find the idea that Bear Island, which is almost one third the size of Skagos and in prime fishing territory, where women are trained to fight alongside the men, could only field sixty two soldiers to be laughable at best…and bloody stupid at worst to make the Starks' situation seem far more dire in the show (The only thing good about it by season 8 was the acting and CGI). While men still march off to war or to hunt, the women remain behind in case of Ironborn or wildling raids, meaning that Bear Island's few houses and clans still have a moderate number of troops that it can provide without leaving itself entirely vulnerable to attack. This takes into account any losses taken during the war, including Dacey Mormont and Lady Maege Mormont (location presently unknown).

House Glenmore: 500, including 30 longbowmen from the elite guard.

House Thenn: 200 Thenn warriors, 300-500 Karstark soldiers loyal to Alys Thenn.

House Umber and its Bannermen: 1000-1200. House Umber's contribution had to have made up at least a noticeable amount of the initial 12 000 to gather at Winterfell, yet GreatJon Umber would have had to leave a significant presence in his lands due to regular Wildling incursions. As a result of the war and the Red Wedding, House Umber's strength is a little over half of what it originally was. Further dividing this house's forces, almost half its remaining levies have been sent north to help reinforce the Wall.

Other assorted minor houses and free riders: 1000-1500.

The Free Folk: Somewhere between 6000 and 7000 warriors are being trained in the Gift in preparation to march south and aid in liberating the North.

In total: At least 1000 Stormlanders, 4000 Essosi sellswords and 10 000 Northmen make up the Baratheon host, presently scattered between Deepwood Motte, Karhold, Last Hearth and East-Watch-by-the-Sea. Another 6000 or more Free Folk presently at Queenscrown are expected to join them in the near future.

 **Neutral Houses: Projected strength of 6800-8500**

House Manderly and its Bannermen: 2500-3000. White Harbour is the largest city and trade hub of the North, as well as secretly a developing naval base for a new Northern Navy. With a population of 50 000, the city guard would need to number around 1000 to both enforce order in the city and the surrounding countryside. Almost 1500 fighters including mounted knights went south, which I feel would reflect only a moderate portion of House Manderly's full host, which would need to remain large enough to protect White Harbour from attack by land or sea. Therefore I predict that they could summon at least another 1500 levies and knights to go with the city guard, but many of these fighters would be sworn to houses whose loyalty is presently at question.

Sellswords: 300-500. To help make up for the loss of so many fighters, House Manderly hired a number of sellswords to both replenish their ranks and help train new fighters and sailors for the developing fleet. However Lord Wyman made sure to hire only a select few to reduce the chance of them betraying him to any of his enemies, taking only enough needed to help ensure White Harbour's security while he replenishes is losses.

Forces of both the Flints of Flint's Finger and Widow's Watch: 2000-2500.

House Reed and its Bannermen: 1500-2000. They live in a swamp on floating castles and crannogs and are not described as being built for heavy warfare, so I can't see the Crannogmen population being able to churn out a great number of fighters but enough to patrol and defend the Neck.

House Hornwood: 500+. The Levies of House Hornwood are badly exhausted after marching south, more so after Ramsay Bolton's abduction, forced marriage and subsequent murder of Lady Hornwood. Many have fled south towards White Harbour and others towards Widow's Watch. Those who remain, while pledging loyalty to no specific monarch or cause, are opposed to the Bolton occupation of their lands and have formed the Hornwood Brotherhood with the aim of avenging the crimes inflicted upon their lands and liegelords.

In total: there are approximately 6500 Northmen and 300 of sellswords sitting on the sidelines, most of them focused around White Harbour.

 **Total Amount of fighters involved in the Northern Campaign (Approximate projections)**

Northmen: 12 000 for the Boltons, 10 000 for the Baratheons and 6500 not yet included. (28 500)

Rivermen: 1400 Frey levies for the Boltons. (1400)

Stormlanders/Crownlanders/Reachmen: Over 1000 for the Baratheons. (1000)

Essosi: 4000 for the Baratheons, less than 300 not yet included. (4300)

Free Folk: 6000 allied with the Baratheons.

At least 42 200 fighters are involved in the Northern Campaign.

I can't remember if this is popular theory or another semi-canon source, but typically I hear that Skagos is projected to have around 3000 capable fighters to contribute. To reflect its more advanced state in this setting I'm going to give it an effective military strength of 4500 and a Total Military strength of 6000. (This being achievable if you slap a weapon into the hands of every healthy boy and girl from a bare minimum age to every man or woman going into their senior years who somehow retained their physical agency and faculties)

For Skane, given its relative size to Skagos as well as the hardships of sharing an island with Tar-Medine and his Orcs, I will say that they have an effective military strength of 1000 and a Total Military strength of 1500.

Xxx

 **Chapter Eighteen: Hard Truths**

 **7** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Deepwood Motte, the North**

A city of tents was spread out on the planes surrounding the wooden motte and bailey castle, banners fluttering in the northern winds carrying the symbols of houses from the North, Crownlands, Stormlands, Reach and every sellsword company in the Baratheon army. The people, once terrified into submission by Ironborn raiders and without defenders now resumed their trades with an overflow of patrons filling up every brothel, mead hall, tavern and bath house in the walled town. Other smallfolk from outlying villages and hamlets had flocked to both the perceived safety and heightened commerce brought about by the great host, ten thousand strong and rising.

Once, Maraiya had heard jests made at Stannis Baratheon's expense after his defeat at the Battle of the Blackwater. They said his aspirations had died that day along with tens of thousands of his men, with few if any outside of his forces willing to even consider his claim to the Iron Throne. As she rode among an entourage of Wull clansmen, Forrester men-at-arms and Braavosi sellswords through the forest of coloured fabrics it appeared to her that the last brother of Robert Baratheon was anything but finished.

The sights and sounds of the encampment, whilst initially awe inspiring at a distance, quickly reminded her as to the reason that Syronos had insisted on her wearing a cloak with the hood up before they'd even encountered Baratheon outriders. Women in the camp either toiled over the wounded, pots of food or in the beds of men from the lowest born commoner to the highest born lord. Tales spoke of some ending up in the third position against their will, and not always because they'd been mistaken for a whore or because the man responsible had been too drunk to tell the difference. Her father had been one of the few knights who came close to fitting the tales of chivalry and even he hadn't been shy about informing Maraiya as to the quality of life of a camp follower.

"Who approaches?" A sentry atop the wooden palisades of Deepwood Motte called.

"Captain Syronos Dirrin of the Free Blades of Braavos!" Syronos replied. "As well as Chief Hugo of Clan Wull! We return to report to King Stannis!"

He'd refrained from bellowing out her name yet. She was grateful for this small favour.

The sentry let them through with a small escort of Glover men who were to deter any in their party from detouring until their claim of Royal business had been verified. Once they'd reached the castle atop the hill and been identified positively by Lady Sybelle herself these guards were dismissed and the party welcomed with grace by none other than Stannis himself, who stepped into the courtyard with a small company of knights by his side.

"Your Grace," Syronos dismounted and offered Maraiya a hand, "allow me to introduce you to Lady Maraiya of House Bell."

Maraiya, after accepting the offered assistance, took this as her cue to pull back her hood. She came to immediately regret this when more than one of Stannis' knights began to eye her with no effort to disguise their lust. There was no way of denying that she was of fair appearance, but Maraiya expected that what truly caught their attention was the shade of her eyes and the unmistakable presence of Nightfall on her back- with so few of its like in Westeros it was easy for any learned man to recite the list of houses that possessed one.

"Your Grace." She quickly dropped to one knee to conceal her discomfort. "I cannot thank you enough for sending these men out. Had you not, I might be in Bolton hands at this very moment."

Stannis motioned with one hand for her to rise. "Stand, Lady Bell." He commanded. "I would hear what you have to say in the security of Lady Sybelle's hall."

Without a word they followed the King in and waited for the doors to be sealed by stone faced Glover men. Stannis had dismissed all but a few of his Knights, likely those forming the leadership of his host. Maraiya, tutored from a young age to recognize the many houses from Dorne to the Wall, found herself examining each of them in turn to see how many she could identify.

There was a dark haired knight who wore a symbol with three death's head moths, one white on a grey field and two more grey over white. _House Horpe from the Stormlands._

Next was a man broader at the chest and shoulders with thick brown hair and a smirk as if he considered himself the one of highest importance in the room. Upon his armoured chest was the depiction of two countercharged and mounted knights facing one another. _House Farring from the Crownlands._

Third was a short and balding man with a familiar gleam of cruelty in his eyes and broken-toothed smile, bearing the sigil of a winged swine that Maraiya found most appropriate for the man who wore it. _House…I don't recognize him, possibly lowborn and knighted._

Standing further back behind the group as if trying to conceal himself from their notice was a knight with a mop of pale hair, a neatly trimmed beard and pleasant enough countenance, yet he appeared almost as reluctant to be present as Maraiya herself. He bore a crest of three spirals connected together. _House Massey, Crownlands._

The only other among the Southern entourage who didn't make her feel akin to prized meat at the market was a grey haired knight bearing the symbol of a blue-green spiral over yellow. _House Wylde. Stormlands._

There were a few other Knights and lesser Lords present, most of them Crownlanders or Stormlanders with the occasional Reachman, yet these five sat closest to Stannis as he took his place at the center of a table arranged parallel to where Maraiya stood, feeling as if she were on trial with this layout. Only the knowledge that Syronos and Chief Wull stood close at hand lent her any sense of confidence. Sybelle Glover, who seemed to detest the presence of these Knights based on the ugly looks she gave them, also came as an added comfort to remind Maraiya that she did not stand alone.

"Tell me everything you know." Stannis said without preamble.

Taken off guard by the sheer lack of…anything she'd expect from a King, Maraiya took a moment to gather herself. "I…"

"Speak up, wench!" The short swine knight barked.

"Would that you'd let her, little piglet." Syronos immediately spoke up. "Shut your jaw and don't interrupt again."

The swine knight turned red at this and began to push his chair back before Stannis stood and slammed a fist down on the table, silencing the room. He let all present stew in that silence before repeating himself, just as calmly as before. "Tell me everything you know."

This time Maraiya was quicker to answer and made sure to speak clearly. "I discovered proof of it in my mother's correspondence." She said. "Nightingale Hall has been sending and receiving messages from Hornwood Castle, which is held by Bolton men. She would not allow anyone to handle these messages once delivered, not even her Maester. She would also write her own responses."

Realizing that this might not be received by her audience as intended she added. "My mother never does that. Live with her as long as I have and you'll know that she delegates anything and everything to servants unless it is something she would trust only to herself. I only found them because I knew a way into the castle's solar that she didn't, and because she'd disobeyed written orders to burn the parchment after memorizing its contents."

Stannis looked at her expectantly, his iron hard stare unnerving her before Syronos slowly stepped into her field of vision and turned to face her, appearing at ease yet giving her a half-smile that somehow pushed her to keep talking.

"It was in a form of code, but I think if you hear it for yourself you will agree that its intent is plain." She recalled what she'd read and began to recite it. "Walrus season looks promising. The butchers' blades are sharp and they wait eagerly to do their work. They promise generous return for our labour. Those extra hands from Norvos will be a godsend, I trust you to see them safely from White Harbour. Watch for prowling wolves and stags, for starvation and desperation breeds boldness in both of them."

The Farring knight snorted. "That's it? Talk of animals and hunting-"

"The Boltons have promised a reward for Lord Manderly's death as well as aid to see it through," Stannis cut the man off. "Sellswords from Norvos to besiege White Harbour, from the sound of it. They also sent a warning to watch for those loyal to both myself and House Stark." He gave Ser Farring a withering stare. "In times of peace the particular choice of phrase would not be nearly enough for justice to be dispensed without physical evidence, but we are not in a time of peace and the Boltons did not chase after her so persistently to keep me from hearing of walrus hunting. Tell me more, Lady Bell."

Maraiya recited more messages that she'd read, all with similar themes.

Walrus hunting, dealing with starving wolves and rabid stags, mentions of the helping hands from Norvos and their expertise in clearing wooded areas quickly. One message at a time, the pieces began to fit together.

"It wasn't until I'd overheard my mother speaking with other conspirators that I fully understood what this meant." Maraiya said after repeating the contents of two score scrolls of parchment. "They believed themselves secure from eavesdropping and spoke plainly. Roose Bolton has secured the service of a sellsword army, the Company of the Axe."

At this, the Farring, Horpe, Wylde and Massey knights all reacted visibly, their respective expressions changing to that of wary concern. The swine knight took notice of this and appeared only confused.

"What's that supposed to be?" He asked, irate. "We've plenty of sellswords here already, what's one more company to tip the scales?"

"The Company of the Axe is the second largest sellsword army in Essos after the Golden Company." Ser Wylde explained grimly. "But they've refused countless offers in favour of staying by the lands said to be the true ancestral origin of the Andals, fighting against the men of Iben in service of Norvos. It is called the Axe, from which they take their name. But to mistake the Company of the Axe as just any sell-sword army is a grim mistake."

"Maester." Stannis beckoned with one hand, almost conjuring the feeble form of Maester Colin from the background. "Do you know of this company?"

"I do, your Grace." The Maester bowed low, his chains clinking. "Their origin dates back to the Andal migration. When the North was targeted for invasion, King Theon Stark the Hungry Wolf repelled all invading armies and led an armada across the Narrow Sea to Andalos in retaliation. He ravaged every town and sept he came upon and displaced any who survived. Of the survivors, many returned to the Axe only to live under the rule of one city or another as it changed hands. Overtime some formed bands and knightly orders that were short lived, but…"

He coughed heavily, prompting Hugo Wull to offer the old man a guiding hand to the nearest chair and a goblet of water from Lady Sybelle. When he finally recovered he resumed.

"They were…united by exiled westerosi, those of the Swords and Stars who refused to accept the offer by King Jaeherys the Conciliator to disarm and disband." He motioned with one arm to Ser Farring. "Experienced knights loyal only to their own dogmatic views brought with them many Poor Fellows and much wealth taken from the unearthed holdings of the Faith Militant. They seized control of many of these groups and aligned them under a common cause: vengeance."

"Upon those who had chased their ancestors out of Andalos." Syronos added. "The Faith of the Old Gods is already reviled by worshippers of the Seven. It makes a perfect enemy to rally against even without Theon Stark's invasion of Andalos."

"That was their original intent, yes." Maester Colin agreed. "However…to date they have never departed from the Axe, so far as I am aware anyways. In return for the support of Greater Norvos, they hold the Axe against the men of Ibben. They control entire towns, maintain trade in the region in Norvos' name and hold the fortress of Hugo's Keep, a bastion of their interpretation of the Faith of the Seven. Rhetoric concerning a new crusade against the North is regularly discussed, yet nothing has ever come of it."

"Until now, with the North divided and the Flayers inviting them in." Hugo Wull rumbled. "What is that leech skinned fuck thinking?! Inviting crusaders into our lands?!"

"He thinks to use the Company to weaken you." Maraiya answered. "An army of seven thousand led by seven hundred knights, seventy commanders, six generals and their Lord Commander have already set sail. They will bring with them siege equipment, war beasts and a fleet to besiege White Harbour by land and sea. He hopes that you will be forced to march on them first."

"And in doing so weaken both our forces and theirs so that Bolton might sweep both his enemy of today…and potential enemies of tomorrow off of the board." Syronos concluded.

The Horpe Knight spoke out. "Their false idols shall not avail them." He stepped into the middle of the gathering. "We know their plan. Give me leave to rally your fleet, your Grace, and I will make the Shivering Sea run red beneath White Harbour."

"I'm certain that Lord Manderly will be glad to see one flavour of zealot fall to another from the comfort of his castle." Lady Sybelle said, her voice thick with mockery. "Try to actually use your head before it is bashed open, fool."

"Hold your tongue, pagan wench!" Ser Horpe commanded harshly.

"I'll not be silenced in my own home by some blood thirsty fool of a Knight with as much chivalry as a wildling!" Sybelle snapped. "The Boltons were hunting for her." She pointed at Maraiya. "They must know by now that their hunters have failed. Even if they do not know that she has shared their plans, they would be idiots to proceed! And Roose Bolton is no fool."

"Are all Northern women this spirited?" Ser Farring took a step towards Lady Sybelle. "Perhaps in your husband's absence, you should be reminded of your place-"

"Silence!" Stannis barked just as Chief Wull and Syronos' hands hovered close to their weapons. "She is right. This is why Bolton has refused to meet my armies in the field and has hidden behind snow and ice. He will take no chance that his reinforcements might be intercepted before they land."

He held up one of the rolls of parchment delivered by Maraiya and read from it. "Take care that the pack does not disrupt trade and travel. Should they be prowling along the road to White Harbour, we must see that brave and loyal men meet with any travellers and see them to safety elsewhere so that our festivities are not delayed." He slammed the parchment down against the table. "They planned for the possibility that they would be found out. Bolton has some means of warning his sellswords so they know to land elsewhere."

"They could strike anywhere." Ser Wylde warned. "Our ships at East Watch and Karhold. The Wildlings at Queenscrown. Last Hearth. They could even bypass White Harbour and move up the White Knife to reinforce the Boltons directly."

"Or divide their forces and wreak havoc across every one of my holdings." Stannis stood up to his full height. "Lady Bell, your service to your King shall be remembered. For now I must command that you remain within Deepwood Motte."

Maraiya slid down to one knee. "As you command, your Grace."

"Under guard." Stannis added.

"Of course, your Grace." Maraiya made to rise.

"And I must warn you: the treason of your mother places the future of your house in doubt." Stannis continued. "As such, if you wish to assume rule of your ancestral lands with my blessing I will require an assurance of your continued fealty and that of your heir. A war can be won through force of arms and strategic cunning, but lasting peace is so much harder to maintain, as my brother's short lived dynasty has demonstrated. He spared some who should have met the headsman's blade or been stripped of their lands and titles, as was his royal prerogative; yet he made no effort to ensure their loyalty beyond a hollow vow. I intend to avoid that mistake."

There could be no mistaking the King's intent, yet Maraiya quietly prayed against it nonetheless.

"In the near future, you shall need to be wed to a loyal man worthy of your station." Stannis stated. "I will not press any suitors upon you, not yet. If there is a man you can name whose loyalty to me is without question then I shall give him consideration. Until then, you may consider yourself a ward of the Crown."

And like that, Maraiya realized that she had exchanged the iron bars and chains of a Bolton prison for the iron word and chains of fealty of a Baratheon. Already she could see some of the knights in Stannis' company had contemplative gleams in their eyes.

"With his Grace's blessing." Syronos spoke. "I would recommend assigning some men of House Wull to see to Lady Maraiya's safety."

"Savages protecting the person and virtue of such a maiden?" The pig knight snorted only for any further mockery to end as Hugo Wull towered over him, the glare of his eyes hidden in the shadow of his helmet.

"Knights and Lords we are not," The Big Bucket growled, "but it is more often Knights and Lords who force themselves on maidens. Victor Bell was a good and dear friend to me and mine, and I will not trust her safety to overreaching southrons like you."

Stannis watched the exchange unfold until he was certain the two would not come to blows…or more likely that the Big Bucket would not rid him of one more blunt instrument. "Captain Dirrin's suggestion has merit." He nodded. "Hugo Wull, I leave Maraiya Bell in your clan's custody until such a time that she is granted leave to return to Nightingale Hall."

So it was not entirely an ordeal that awaited her, at least. Maraiya had become fond of the Big Bucket during the journey to Deepwood Motte, with his jovial ways and stories of her father. His men had likewise shown that despite being far from what the south might consider to be civilized, they were more trustworthy in how they cared not for wearing masks to hide their true selves. Not all of them were chivalrous by any means, but she had felt much safer among them than she did among the southern knights occupying House Glover's ancestral seat.

The Big Bucket stepped away from the pig knight and grunted, bowing his head. "As your Grace commands." He lumbered over and offered Maraiya his hand. "Come, m'lady."

She accepted the offering and followed him out, feeling so much lighter once the doors closed behind her.

Xxx

 **Skagos**

 **7** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

There was never a shortage of food here. The Old Horns were best left alone unless truly desperate, but he found anything else needed to sate his hunger as he searched.

His wild brother had been through here recently. Many times. Hunting. Him and his equally wild sibling.

Ghost came upon stray broken arrows, remains of encampments and cooking fires, mounds of dirt shifted to cover where his wild brothers had defecated. This had been his task set by his silent brother, to find the wild brothers. He was getting closer each day, but by now it seemed they had discovered they were being followed.

They were trying to evade him. False trails, crossing through dangerous territory and changing their scent to lose him. But he had hunted in far more treacherous grounds before, hunted the blue eyed ones where ever they tried to harm his silent brother's pack. To Ghost, these tricks were easily seen through.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke and cooked meat hit him. Ghost stiffened and then padded, silently as his namesake, towards the source. He picked up the crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot and heard the faintest whisper of a woman.

He may have been silent, but a stray breeze had sent his scent downwind and warned his wild brother. They were moving.

Ghost raced forward, erupting through underbrush. A mass of black slammed into him from the side, but he rolled with them and flung them off so he could rise to his feet, teeth bared.

His wild brother snarled, green eyes ablaze with a wordless fury as he bared bloody fangs. The wild brother lunged, but Ghost met them and wrestled them down onto their back where he used is superior size and weight to pin them, leaving them to claw uselessly at him and snap his jaws at thin air.

"Shaggy!"

Ghost heard a bow string tightening as it was pulled back and threw himself clear before an arrow sang through where his head had been. Abandoning his wild brother where he lay, he darted behind the nearest tree as a second arrow flew. Peeking out, he saw two humans emerge, one of them a taller female who had fired the arrows and the other…

The little wild brother. At last!

Ghost slowly leaned into view only to withdraw as the she-hunter nocked a third arrow.

"Get 'em Shaggy!" The little wild brother howled, pointing a sharpened stick and urging the big wild brother on, trying to flush Ghost out.

"Wait!" The she-hunter slowly lowered her weapon. "Wait, little lord."

"It hit Shaggy!" The little wild brother snarled. "Let's kill it!"

"No, little lord." The she-hunter set her arrow aside. "Look at him. He could've opened Shaggydog before we got back, but he didn't." She knelt down and eyed Ghost as he peeked his head out again. "You're a Direwolf too…not one I've seen, but Little Bran told me of the pups his older brothers came home with. One for each Stark, even one for their Snow brother. Whites of fur, eyes red as the sap of a Heartree and silent as death. Are you the Snow's wolf? Are you Ghost?"

The little wild brother still kept his spear pointed towards Ghost as he padded out into view, but made no move to attack. The big wild brother bared his fangs again but stayed by his sibling's side as Ghost moved in close enough for the she-hunter to brush between the ears.

"You are, aren't you?" She grinned. "Is Jon here? Has the little lord's brother come for him?"

The sound of others approaching drew both direwolves' attention. They glowered in the direction of men shambling through the trees, guided by packs of hounds.

"Stanes." The she-hunter hissed and pulled away from Ghost. "Come along, little lord."

Hunters, seeking the wild brothers. Ghost nudged his sibling away, urging him to remain with their little wild brother and his protector. With some reluctance this command was obeyed and Ghost turned is attention to the approaching hunters, who released their hounds and broke into jogs as they neared.

By the time these men reached the clearing they found only the remains of a hastily disassembled camp site and the mangled bodies of three of their hounds.

Xxx

 **8** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Ashcrown, Skane**

Jon gasped, but drew no breath. It was reflex that made him lash out in a panic, ripping through the layers of white silk that encroached around him. In his haste he tore his way free and landed on twisting roots which sloped down to the Sheepstealer's resting spot.

The dragon opened one eye and tilted its head away from Jon as it eyed him. Turning away, it lowered its snout to nudge at Rhae where she lay until she awoke.

"Fucking what now?" The dragon rider groaned and turned over. "Sheepy, you'd better-" She stopped upon seeing Jon stumble down towards them. "Oh, you're back. Took you long enough. How'd the monster hunt go?"

Jon slumped down sideways against an outcropping and fumbled for Longclaw's hilt. He pulled what remained of the Valyrian steel blade out for Rhae to see.

"That bad, eh?" She nodded and rolled off of Sheepstealer's flank. "Well, fuck."

She smoothed out her cloak and beckoned for Jon to follow. "Come on, you've got worse news to hear yet."

"How…long?" Jon wheezed.

"Since you went to Morgund'dur? This'd be the fourth day since." Rhae sighed. "Also the fourth since your friends ran off after you."

That made Jon shoot to his feet. "Tormund?" He raced after her. "Davos? They went there?!"

"Aye, that's the truth of it. I didn't know until I got back, else I'd have stopped them." Rhae shrugged. "Sounds like my father didn't do much to keep them from running off though. Take it up with him if you wish, I've got a dragon who will get cranky if I stay away for too long."

The Weaver sat at the shore of a pond within Ashcrown's boundaries, accompanied by his usual entourage and watching with a fatherly smile as several of them feasted upon the cocooned forms of several frogs.

"I take it that your foray into Morgund'dur did not yield victory." Daemon said, keeping his back to Jon.

"You sent Davos and Tormund there." Jon accused. "They might already be dead!"

"I hardly had to command them to do anything." Daemon replied. "They were already intent on following you, particularly Giantsbane. I merely gave them something that would give them a fighting chance: knowledge of your enemy."

"And why wasn't this shared with me before?" Jon demanded. "I was nowhere near prepared to face Tar-Medine! I barely got away with my life!"

"Not even that." Daemon stood and dusted off his long robes. "You've no life left to give, Jon Snow. You are a Grave Walker now, a wraith anchored between two worlds. You have only more of your humanity to lose with every fatal blow you suffer."

He turned and gave Jon a knowing smile with a nefarious glint in his eyes. "You know what I speak of already, don't you? You've only died twice ever since you became as you are, but you've felt it; like a cask that has sprung a leak you've felt something being slowly siphoned away."

As uncomfortable as it was to admit it: the old man was not wrong.

"Tell me…has anything from your distant past been harder to recall?" Daemon picked up his staff and limped up to where Jon stood. "A fond memory with one of your siblings. The first time you felt proud of something you'd done. An old shame. A bitter moment of resentment."

Looking back, Jon could recall the more memorable moments of the past several years in perfect clarity. The moment he'd been elected Lord-Commander, being given Longclaw, facing a wight for the first time, taking his oath to the Night's Watch, parting ways with his family for the last time…

Speaking to Tyrion Lannister and heeding his counsel…

Drinking himself drunk in the great hall…

Finding Ghost…did he find Ghost in the bushes close by, already walking on his own, or had it been just on the other side of his mother's corpse?

Sparring with Robb, Theon, Jory and a dozen other faces that melded together…he could have sworn he remembered most of them. The guards at Winterfell had been warmer towards him than Lady Stark.

Playing in the Godswood with Arya…how long ago had that been?

Watching Bran climb…something…he remembered feeling scared. Jon had seen his brother climb most of the structures and walls in Winterfell, but this one…had it been the old tower? He'd been scared that something Bran climbed would crumble beneath him.

Playing with Robb and…something upset him. He couldn't remember why. Robb had said something…that included calling him a bastard. The other words were muffled and incoherent.

He'd made a doll for Sansa's nameday…when had that been? He'd been so scared that Lady Stark would destroy it, he made Arya give it in his place…or had it been Robb?

Old memories from his earlier days, events that he'd thought locked into his recollection were now distant and fading. Small details here and there such as a face, a name, a location. With some Jon would debate between two possibilities, with others…he couldn't begin to remember anything about them.

"I predict that some of your less significant memories are already gone, with others faded but still recoverable." Daemon told Jon as he stepped past him. "That is the consequence of your undead state. To return to life, a price is reaped which slowly carves out pieces of you which make you Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark."

A frightening thought came to Jon in light of the old man's words. How much could he have forgotten entirely already? How many more times could he die before he began to forget the faces of his friends and family? Who would he become if he forgot them all?

…

What would he become?

"Why?" Jon gasped as he turned towards the elder.

"Why, you ask? Because that is the true consequences of being undying, Jon Snow." Daemon lightly pressed the head of his staff to Jon's brow. "For it is that which lays here which defines that which lays here." He lowered the staff to press against Jon's unbeating heart. "To be undying, to be immortal…is to slowly watch as everything you cherish fades away into obscurity until even you have forgotten it all. And once that happens, all that will remain will be a hollow shell without any ties to its former life to guide it."

He withdrew his staff. "And you needed to learn this now rather than later, to realize that you still stand to lose something more precious than any treasure. Better now than after Jon Snow fades away to be replaced by the Grave Walker."

The Weaver shuffled back onto the path towards the Sheepstealer's enclosure. "And now that you've learned, we may begin."

"Begin?" Jon followed after.

"Begin showing you how to slay a monster properly!" Daemon hollered and gestured impatiently with his staff. "Move it along! Youth these days, capable of moving so fast and always going nowhere unless you hold their hand…" He grumbled.

Xxx

 **Coast of Skane,** _ **Sea Dragon**_

"There's your missing ship, alright." Baldric Magnar lowered the spy glass and handed it to Ser Narbert Grandison. "Perfectly good waste, too."

The Baratheon ship had been smashed against the rocks surrounding Skane. From a safe distance the Lord of Kingston had seen that the anchors had not been dropped and every long boat was absent.

"I'll have whoever allowed this flogged to the bone." Ser Narbert hissed after observing it for himself.

Were it anyone but the red priestess said to be aboard, Baldric would have believed the Stormlander. There was no proof as of yet, but Baldric could not think of anyone else who would violate Jon Snow and Davos Seaworth's commands for the ship to remained moored off of Skagos. The question of how she managed this could be answered later.

"M'lord!" One of the sailors raced to Baldric's side. "Word from the watchman: long boats spotted on short less than half a league north along the coast."

"That solves that mystery." Baldric deadpanned.

He hadn't wanted to return here. After Jon Snow's company had failed to return within three days he had done as he promised and sailed back home, only to find a collective of Thenns, Karstark men-at-arms and southron soldiers stranded in his lands. They'd spoken of an Essosi woman who had held the king's ear ever since she entered his service, who drank an entire goblet of poison and hadn't died and conjured magic by burning men alive in sacrifice to her god. He'd heard of their kind before, and had instructed all of his agents to avoid them if at all possible.

If one of the fire worshippers were going to Skane, he could only imagine them making everything worse. The last thing Skagos needed was someone else with a propensity for burning everything in sight. So he'd offered Ser Narbert and his remaining company transport to Skane to retrieve the wayward ship.

He had his own reasons behind this sudden bout of generosity, the hope of finding Jon Snow waiting on the shore with the monster's head being the most prominent. But he didn't care to share this with Ser Narbert. Of course the knight's motivations may have laid in not wanting to explain to his king how he'd lost an entire vessel on top of the Hand of the King. Baldric had known him only a few days and knew that the Stormlander begrudged taking orders from a lowborn smuggler turned Lord and a Northern bastard.

If given the option the Stormlander would have sooner sailed back with Rickon Stark in tow without any of the Thenns or Northmen for company. Still, he had managed to maintain a modicum of décor in accepting Baldric's offer and had yet to say or do anything to offend- if anything he appeared to be treading carefully when in Baldric's presence when his interactions with most others were short and dismissive at best.

"Get the long boats ready, lads!" Baldric roared. "Ser Narbert, unfortunately that your ship is beyond saving, but I'll aid you in salvaging what you can from it and guarantee you and your men safe return to the mainland. However that's as far as I'll go. I'll not set one foot on Skane nor command any man sworn to me to do the same."

"I will gladly be rid of this wretched spit of rock." Ser Narbert watched his men, both on the _Sea Dragon_ and her sister ship the _Trident_ , load into the longboats. "The bastard and smuggler have clearly failed in their monster hunt. After we finish salvaging what we can, you may take us back to Skagos. I'll find the Stark boy on my own without anymore of these distractions and diversions."

Xxx

 **Ashcrown, Skane**

"If you knew I had no chance, why did you send them after me?" Jon tried not to squirm at the sight of the Weaver imbibing from a bowl filled with wriggling, lives insects.

"Why? So that you would have reason to go back." Daemon said while the sound of an insect's shell crunching between his teeth mixed with his words. "To know that you had no chance of defeating Tar-Medine would have sent you fleeing back to Skagos to take your chances. None would blame you for that, faced with a seemingly insurmountable foe, but my people need Tar-Medine vanquished and you still remain the best chance for that."

A manipulator the Weaver was, but a straightforward one at least.

"What is he?" Jon changed the course of the conversation, ever grateful that he hadn't eaten in days. "Tar-Medine. Is he a man?"

"Of course he's a man! Did you see any tits on him?" Daemon snorted. "But more than that, he is a being who takes the form of a man out of amusement. His true form, that which he assumes when stepping out to entertain himself with harassing the stoneborn, is the very monster you envisioned slaying."

So the Lord of Morgund'dur and the beast responsible for the flight of the Skani and the desolation on Skagos were truly one and the same.

"He is formidable as you've already seen for yourself, but he is not invulnerable." Daemon explained after swallowing a long wriggling form which made Jon almost gag. "In fact, he is weaker now than he's ever been. In his glory days you would have been crushed underfoot like an ant. Good old Sheepy there dealt him wounds that still haven't healed."

Sheepstealer snorted and opened one eye.

"And just like Sheep, he feeds from another source of magic to sustain himself." Daemon continued. "Only his source is not so…big." He motioned to the Heartree towering over the gathering spot. "In fact, I made it clear to Ser Davos and Giantsbane that if they could find it they could easily remove it from Morgund'dur's confines."

"Then what is it?" Jon asked.

Daemon held up his index finger and thumb on one hand together to form a loop. "A ring."

"A ring?"

"Are you a parrot?" Daemon asked. "Yes, a ring. A magic ring. Very powerful, too."

"If his source of power is a ring, then Tar-Medine could be wearing it even now." Jon pointed out the flaw in Daemon's plan.

"Oh not this one!" Daemon grinned and shook his head. "No, this one…Tar-Medine would be a fool to wear this ring. No, he found another way to suckle at its power without exposing himself to it. A ritual, ongoing in perpetuity and reliant on the ring remaining at the heart of a magical array hidden within the fortress. Pluck that out and-" He crushed one of his snacks in his bony hand. "You'll have a greater chance than anyone else would of ending that wretch."

Rhae came to Jon's rescue and took the bowl from her father's lap. "Seriously? In front of a guest? And I thought my manners were in question." She shook her head and tossed the contents to some of the Weaver's spiders.

Instead of getting upset at this, the Weaver chuckled softly. "Oh Rhae, allow an old man his vices."

"I will when they aren't making an undead man wish he was full dead." Rhae rubbed her palms against the fabric of her cloak. "And as for your grand plan, Snow would need an army to get near that ring. It's guarded day and night by an entire company of Orcs specially chosen for the task, and their Captain has them disciplined and ready for anything. I couldn't get close to that and I've tried several times every year since I took over as Sheep's rider."

"Well you are not a Grave Walker, dear." Daemon reminded her. "In fact, by the dawning look of realization I see in his eyes, I think our guest already has a plan."

"I do." Jon nodded quickly. "But I need a few things. Is there a way that we can contact the Skagosi? We'll need Lord Magnar's help and for the rest of my company to be ferried over."

A shrill whistle from Ashcrown's borders made Sheepstealer raise his head in alarm.

"Something tells me your wish will be granted, Jon Snow." Daemon held up a hand so a mouse sized spider could lower itself down onto his palm. "Rhae, we have unwelcome guests approaching. Be a dear and take Jon to speak with them before they set something on fire."

Xxx

End of Chapter


	20. Chapter 19: Call to Arms

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Nineteen: Call to Arms**

 **8** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Ashcrown, Skane**

"I told you to kill her." The Stranger reminded Jon.

"Not now." He murmured.

Every last man who Jon remembered leaving behind aboard the _Steffon's Legacy_ bore a solid black burn in the shape of a hand print across their face and gazed at him with clouded over eyes that saw nothing that they weren't ordered to notice. Right now all they saw was the Heartree nestled at the heart of the bowl-like depression.

Rhae did not like that last part one bit. The row of Skani bowmen behind her shared that sentiment.

"Lady Melisandre, I cannot begin to explain to you just how little I care for your dogma today." Jon quite literally stood between Melisandre and a new vocation as a pin cushion. "You've disobeyed a direct command to remain with the ship, the crew of which _likewise_ disobeyed a direct command to remain moored at Skagos." He glared at the branded men. "Though perhaps they had less choice in the matter than you did."

"None of what I do is by my choice, Jon Snow." Melisandre spoke to him like his sisters' Septa would address them whenever they said something foolish in their youth. "The Lord of Light desires that I stand here, so too does he wish the same of you."

"Well I don't see him here, so I'll just have to tell you to get off our fucking island." Rhae said bitingly. "If you'd like though, I'll write him a heartwarming message for you to deliver by hand. It'll make him cry, but in the good way."

The Red Priestess looked with mirth towards Rhae. "Your false gods' symbol is safe, child. The Lord has shown me that in my…pious enthusiasm I have been disruptive to the one true King's efforts. I am not here to force you and your people to see the glory of the Lord of Light, but rather…prove that he is worth following."

This was a change of tune from the woman who had tried to insist on having every Wildling who crossed the Wall burn a piece of Weirwood. Jon had been quick to put a stop to that by reminding Stannis' men that they were still on what had been his land at the time, but not before a few fights had broken out and at least one person was immolated by the end. Eventually Stannis had been convinced by the idea that the Free Folk's willingness to settle the Gift peacefully and aid in manning the Wall were contingent upon there being at least one strand of good will between them and those south of the Wall.

"You could still kill her now and spare yourself a headache." The Stranger proposed, smirking as Melisandre inclined her head towards him.

"If your words are genuine," Jon intervened to prevent a scenario where he had to explain the Red Priestess would have a philosophical debate with thin air, "then release the men in your company from whatever spell you've put over them."

"Not yet, Jon Snow." Melisandre stepped away from the ranks of her followers with a knowing smile. "They are needed for the coming conflict. You will be glad for their unflinching aid when you confront your adversary again."

"And just how do you expect to be of any help?" Rhae asked. "Beyond making a convenient, if not obvious distraction?"

Melisandre raised one hand to the ruby encrusted choker around her neck. "I can help you to take away what sustains the aberration." Her eyes gleamed like candles. "Its most precious treasure and source of power."

Jon looked back to see Rhae's stunned expression, then returned his attention to Melisandre. "How do you know of it?"

"The same way that I knew you would be here." Melisandre replied. "The same way that I influenced these men to be of aid to me. All that I do, all that I am capable of is a gift from the Lord of Light."

"Gifts to a madwoman from a mad god." The Stranger mocked. "Gifts that come with a price so heavy they would crush you and your enemies at once."

That much could not be disputed, and yet Jon began to empathize with Stannis as he realized that when so grossly outmatched even the occult held an appeal as a legitimate tool of war. Word from the south in the early days of the war had been that Renly had been assassinated in his own tent by his own Kingsguard, paving the way for Stannis to gain most of the Stormlands…and shortly after Ser Cortnay Penrose, castellan of Storm's End, fell from the walls of the fortress which subsequently surrendered to Stannis.

Two convenient deaths, both inflicted in ways that could not be rightly blamed upon Stannis. Had he turned to this woman for sorcerous aid, as little more than a convenient tool to achieve his aims? Once the idea of kinslaying and assassination would have revolted Jon such that he would have never allied with Stannis…but that was a Jon Snow who valued honour almost to the exclusion of all else. Now he stood with Wildlings, Skani and an honest to gods dragon against an enemy who had no such weakness.

Would allying with a priestess infamous for burning men alive really be such a strenuous step if it allowed him to bring to a close Tar-Medina's rule?

"Perhaps." Jon whispered. "But she may still be of use to us."

The Stranger snarled and faded away, washing his hands of the matter.

"I would have your word first." Jon said to Melisandre. "You will swear upon the name your god, the Lord of Light, and upon King Stannis' as well, may both be tainted if you prove false."

And may _her_ head rest on a pike if she betrayed him, damn whatever Stannis or anyone else thought of it.

The Priestess regarded him with interest. "What would you demand of me?" The rise of one side of her red lips and slight parting of her red cloak told Jon all he needed of what she thought he would demand.

"You will renew the pledge you made that the Heartree of Ashcrown will not be harmed, even after Tar-Medine is dealt with." Jon issued his ultimatum. "You will swear to never attempt to burn it or convert the people who live in its shadow, that even if the Others are defeated and a thousand years passes you will not seek to force your faith upon Skane. You will make the same promise to Skagos and all of the North. You will also swear to release these men from your enthralment."

"I do so swear."

Jon's mouth had already opened to issue a counterargument before Melisandre's short, swift response reached him. The Priestess wore a look of mirth at his stunned reaction.

"I do so swear," she reiterated, her accented voice sounding exasperated, "upon the Lord of Light and his chosen, the Prince who is Promised, Azor Ahai Reborn, King Stannis of House Baratheon. The faith of the false gods of the forest and the hollow seven within the lands of the North have nothing to fear from me nor any of my flock. Though I cannot make or enforce this promise in the name of all who follow R'hllor, I will also swear to convey to them that my Lord has commanded peace with the false idols for the sake of a greater cause."

Of any thing that could have come from this encounter, Jon never would have thought that she would so quickly accede to his demands.

"The Lord has shown me that his light cannot be forced unto others, lest it breeds needless conflict with his servants in the face of the final battle against darkness." The priestess explained to him. "I have accepted his judgement, as loath as I am to allow this paganism to endure."

She did not care to hide her continued distaste for other faiths, though Jon would have been more worried if she claimed to be at peace with her supposed god's decision. Pragmatism was not something that he would attribute to a zealot of her kind, yet with so few followers behind her he was confident that the Skani could deal with any attempted treachery.

"But there is one final condition." The hand on her choker pulled away and uncurled one slender digit. "Not one of my own choosing, but that of my Lord's."

"Name it."

She shook her head. "Not for all to hear it. The Lord's will is for you alone to hear." The priestess motioned with her head to one side and moved over a fair distance away from Rhae, her bowmen and the branded men.

Jon whispered to Rhae. "I don't trust her." He said as an assurance. "Not entirely."

"That's the smartest thing you've said since you got here." She grinned. "Go on. I could do with less of hearing her poison anyways."

Following the priestess to another section of the crater's edge, Jon heard her proposal and, against his better judgement: accepted it.

Now he knew why she didn't want the Skani to hear it.

Xxx

 **9** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Coast of Skane,** _ **Sea Dragon**_

The salvage of _Steffon's Legacy_ had proceeded slowly at first, with the waves and rocks presenting an obstacle which the Stormlander lacked qualified sailors to navigate even in day. Nightfall made it all but impossible to even conceive of getting near shore. Once the sun rose to provide enough light Baldric's men picked up the slack to find a safe route to where their longboats could get close enough to allow for boarding, and now were helping to remove provisions and anything of use from the wreck at a steady pace.

Baldric remained on the _Sea Dragon_ to keep watch for any threats, be they from land or sea, and had finally escaped the unique pleasure of Ser Narbert's company to consult with the _Dragon's_ designated warg: a dark haired shield maiden by the name of Astrid.

He found her near the prow, leaning against the deck railing and her clouded over eyes staring emptily at the shoreline. At first glance one would not think her a skin changer, but that was because most skin changers today were Wildlings (or Free Folk as Snow had insisted on calling them) who had clearly spent too much time in their other skins. Astrid was adorned in leathers and chainmail that quite thoroughly hid any sign of her womanly curves, leaving only her sharply angled and pale face bare while her hair, bound in a tight braid draped across one shoulder, shifted lightly with winds of the sea.

"What do your eagle eyes see?" Baldric asked of her.

"The _Trident_ has turned back." She answered. "They have lit their beacon."

Someone had attacked them, or tried to if the _Trident_ was still seaworthy and able to send out a warning.

"Do you see Gostav's eagle?"

She shook her head. "No sign of him."

The _Trident's_ warg was either unwilling to show himself, or unable to. They would soon find out when it returned, but he would be sure to stand ready in case the worst had come to pass and someone else was in control. He hadn't become the Lord of House Magnar by leaving to chance something that was in his power to affect, Jon Snow's mission being a rare exception justified as an investment too good to let slip by.

But that investment no longer mattered if he was dead.

"Wait. Someone is on the shore!" Astrid's eagle skin passed overhead and directed Baldar's eyes to the section of shoreline near the abandoned longboat from the _Legacy_.

Figures stood in the shadow of the slopes overlooking the sandy beach. Baldric raised his spyglass and immediately noticed the tell-tale red, prompting a groan from him.

"Fuck. It's the fire-witch." He shifted his gaze slightly to one side and saw a familiar, perpetually brooding face next to her. "…well fuck me."

"I think your wife might object, m'lord." Astrid replied dryly.

Xxx

 **Morgund'dur, Skane**

Davos Seaworth's dreams always ended in emerald fire, no matter what or whom he dreamt of. He'd seen his sons consumed again and again, witnessed little Shireen shriek her last breaths as her flesh was scorched black and been unable to stop Stannis from blindly marching into the fires of hell too many times since the Battle of the Blackwater.

This time he was torn from the sight of Jon Snow, eyes bright blue and cold, being swept away by a tide of wildfire.

"Seaworth!" Tormund hissed, shaking him roughly.

"Uhn…" Davos groaned as his eyes fluttered open to take in the sight of a curved stone ceiling overhead, dimly illuminated by a nearby sconce as a rancid door permeated the air.

He turned over and expelled the contents of his stomach.

"Up!" Tormund hauled him to his feet and dragged him along. "Hurry!"

There were others moving about them, but Davos' vision was still adjusting by the time Tormund shoved him through an open doorway flanked by rusted bars of metal. He heard the door swing shut and was flung to the floor again, feeling Tormund's arm against his back.

"Don't. Move. Don't. Talk." He whispered into Davos' ear, emphasizing each word. "Or we're fucked."

Davos had enough of his faculties from years of taking hard blows to his head back in Fleabottom to acknowledge this. He closed his eyes as hurried foot steps echoed down the passage beyond the door, followed by frantic gasps of breath by what sounded like a woman.

Then…there were many more foot steps, the slap of naked foot soles against moist stone accompanied by heavy, rattling breaths and grunts. The latter grew louder, developing a sense of urgency or excitement while the woman's frantic gasps turned into terrified screams…

And then agonized howling as her pursuers ran her down. Davos cringed and felt Tormund's arm press down against his back as the war chief shivered with fright. Bones snapped and blood splattered the stone floor, sending a copper scent wafting into the cell. The woman's cries devolved into choked gurgling as blood filled her throat, and finally…nothing but the sound of tearing and…feasting…

Davos didn't know how long they'd stayed there before whatever was outside the cell shuffled away, but Tormund didn't let up until even the echo of their grunts and rasping breaths faded away.

With a heavy exhale the war chief removed his arm and rolled onto his back. "I fucking hate this island."

"What…was that?" Davos didn't dare raise his voice above a whisper.

"Don't know, but it's a good thing they don't smell as good as they hear." Tormund sat up. "Just about soiled myself the first time they came through."

The first time…?

"How long have I been out?"

"A few hours." Tormund moved to the bars and peered out. "Some of the friendlier faces down here said we were dropped in here, same as them."

"And who are they exactly?" Davos joined him, missing the weight of his sword on his belt.

"Some are local, others say they crashed in a storm or got lost and landed here before they realized just who was waitin' for 'em." Tormund carefully opened the door, tenderly maneuvering it in a way that minimized the groan of rusted metal scraping on rusted metal before he let it rest against the wall. "All got the same story: those fuckers toss 'em down here, let 'em languish and then when they're good and broke…they take 'em back out and nobody hears from 'em again."

Davos followed him back out as other figures, most of them emaciated men with sunken eyes, crawled out of their own hiding spots and hurried away. "Last I remember…we were coming up on the fortress."

"Aye, then we were jumped." Tormund nodded. "Came outta nowhere, lot's of 'em. Barely had me sword out before I went down. Then I woke up here with all the charmin' company in the whole fuckin' world I could ever ask for."

Davos wasn't sure whether he should feel more: the irony or the shame of the situation. They came to help Jon and now at best they'd need his help to get out of this, just another distraction to add to a plate of problems that was quickly becoming a feast.

"He probably wanted this to happen." Davos realized. "The Weaver. He sent Jon here to die and now he's rid of us as well."

"Snow can't die." Tormund reminded him.

"Valar morghulis…"

A hunched figure emerged from the darkened passage through which…whatever had left what was now a massive puddle and trail of blood had gone. Bare feet, wrinkled and each missing their smallest toe, padded through the red liquid without making a sound where even the rats at least could be heard skittering through.

"It is only a matter of how…" The figure raised its head enough for Davos to see darkened skin and a the edge of a slit nose, "…and when. Valar dohaeris."

If Davos never heard those words again before he died it would still be too soon.

"The fuck are you?" Tormund grunted, now close enough to the nearest light source for Davos to note that one of the man's eyes had swollen to the point of being forced closed.

"An old woman who has been in this hell since you were in swaddling clothes." The hooded woman shuffled between and past them. "Which is why you should follow me."

"Forgive me for saying so, m'lady, but that's no reason to trust you." Davos said.

"There's no reason to trust anyone to do more than act in their own self interest, yet you always end up surprise anyways." The woman turned to face them. "But what do I know? I'm just someone who lived to grow old in a place where most die on their first day."

When she put it that way…

"Tormund?"

"What?"

"I'm following her."

At best this was genuine and they would live to see the sun again.

At worst, she'd kill them or they'd die of starvation or at the hands of whatever those things were…or their own hands if they stayed long enough to go mad.

Anything sound better than spending the rest of his natural life here.

Xxx

 **Greencrown, Skane**

"Yer absolutely fuckin' mad." Baldric Magnar said after Jon finished explaining himself. "Then again: this whole island sounds fuckin' mad 'n you don't strike me as a creative liar."

It had been an ordeal to even convince the Lord of House Magnar to set foot on Skane. Only after Jon had assured him that there were only very physical threats to be feared instead of ghosts did Baldric allow himself to be tempted into being the first Magnar on Skane in centuries. Ser Narbert had followed quickly, lacking the Skagosis' appreciation for the tales of songs of the Feast of Skane.

Jon had just finished explaining to them the exact state of affairs on Skane…and they were understandably sceptical, even Baldric who had grown up with the harassment of Skane's resident monster as a regular aspect of his life. He'd shown them the stretches of abandoned land and ruins as far as Greencrown, which was as far as either was willing to move inland for the time being.

That was just fine, as Jon had already selected it for this gathering with good reason.

"I find that calling these claims of yours 'outlandish' doesn't do them justice." Ser Narbert said, kicking a rock into the pond dominating the heart of Greencrown. "Dragons, sorcery and a dark fortress. Pah!"

"That last one is true for certain." Baldric argued. "My men on the _Trident_ saw it from afar, towards the far side of the island. Bigger than anything Skane had before the Feast."

"What these back water savages have gotten up to in their privacy holds no interest to me." Narbert said scornfully. "Snow, you've dragged us far off of our original mission! We could have already been back in the North and presented your brother to King Stannis if not for this diversion."

"And yet it is the Lord's will which has guided us here, Ser Narbert." Melisandre reminded him, standing on a short ledge overlooking the gathering. "He would not have us face the coming darkness with another enemy, however lesser, to our flank."

The knight averted his eyes towards the ground at the priestess' gentle chastising,. "A thousand pardons, Lady Melisandre, but I still find these claims hard to believe on faith alone. Mayhap it is a personal failure of mine, but it is as it is."

"Your proof is coming." Jon assured him, sitting on the stone edge of the pond. "There is another reason that we are speaking here and not closer to shore."

Ser Narbert dismissiveness of anything Jon said was set to rear its ugly head when the Sheepstealer's roar cut across the planes. Baldric, Ser Narbert and their respective entourages looked skyward and gaped at the winged silhouette which swept down out of the clouds and passed low over Greencrown, kicking up a gust of wind which unsteadied several men- none of them Melisandre's branded followers. As the Sheepstealer began to come about for a landing, a number of Skani cloaked in green and brown emerged from the western edge of the settlement.

Sheep made his landing behind them, just at the edge of the stone buildings where his mass would not cause any further damage. From there, Rhae and several more figures dismounted and walked down to the pond's edge through a well established gap through the mass of Skani. When she stood close enough to be clearly seen she removed her hood and mask, displaying her white hair and purple eyes.

Baldric and his men openly gaped at the sight of the Skani. All their live they had _known_ Skane to be devoid of life, a ghost island at best. To see with their own eyes that everything they'd known was false, to find genuine Skani standing before, had to be much like how Jon had felt when he had first beheld the Giants in Mance Rayder's host.

"Targaryen…" Ser Narbert whispered, pale and shivering at the sight of a live dragon even from several dozen meters away. "How?"

"Don't be calling me that now, southron." Rhae scowled and jabbed a thumb against the centre of her leather cuirass. "The name's Rhae," she pointed the same thumb over her shoulder, "that's Sheep, and the rest of this lot are the finest rangers on Mother Skane. You're guests on our lands, so mind your manners, shut your mouths and open your ears."

She directed a nod at Jon. "All yours, Grave Walker."

Jon climbed back up and returned the gesture. "You have Lord Magnar's word on the location of Morgund'dur, the testimony of Lady Melisandre and now you have a dragon and its rider. Do you care to continue disputing my word, or do you wish for me to get to the meat of the matter, Ser Narbert?"

At least one of Ser Narbert's men had soiled himself, another two had stumbled and tripped and had yet to return to their feet, eyes locked onto either Rhae or Sheep. Ser Narbert himself was able to tear his eyes away from both to look at Jon, disbelief replaced by fear.

"The monster is real." The Stormlander stated.

For another pleasant surprise, Jon found out that even a zealous man like Narbert Grandison could draw a line on when to stop believing what he wished and start believing what he saw and heard.

"It is real." Jon nodded. "And so is the threat it represents. It has remained idle here by necessity, suffering grievous wounds inflicted by the very dragon before you, but we can't assume that it will remain here forever. One day, eventually, it will regain its strength and move onto new pastures and do there what it did here." He gestured with one arm to the ruins of Greencrown. "And when that happens, no army or king will be able to stand against it or its army."

"And no dragon to stop it." Rhae provided. "Food for thought."

"An entire army…the-the King must be warned!" Ser Narbert stammered. "An- an entire island of monsters and sorcerers right off the- off of the shore of his realm! And a Targaryen astride a- astride a- a dragon! Lord of Light protect us!"

While holding out one arm to stop Rhae from approaching the Stormlander, Jon shot Melisandre a meaningful look as he saw where this was heading.

 _Deal with him, or I will._ He had cautioned the priestess beforehand, and reiterated this without a spoken word.

Melisandre strode towards the knight amidst his breakdown and clasped the sides of his head, forcing him to meet her eyes. "The Lord of Light is here with us, Ser Narbert." She spoke to him as if he were a child suffering a nightmare. "We are, all of us, his champions in this battle. From the lowest born servant to fire incarnate itself, he has blessed us so that we may carry out his will. Do not cower from this task, for the night is dark and full of terrors, but He stands beside us where ever we do battle in his name."

The Bright Stranger manifested at Jon's side, looking on with abject disapproval. "I feel her mad god's power in her words." He whispered. "She enchants him. Not like her Branded, but she tugs at his mind to inhibit his free will."

 _If it brings Grandison and his men into our ranks, I can live with it._

"The night is dark…" Ser Narbert whispered, shaking as Melisandre kissed his brow. "…and full of terrors." He swallowed and bowed his head in reverence. "But-but…we shall meet them. We must. In His name."

 _Good, with that out of the way maybe we can continue._

"But-"

 _Gods damn it!_

"-should we not still warn the king and bring reinforcements?" Ser Narbert asked.

"King Stannis cannot help us here." Jon argued. "Tar-Medine may be powerful and his forces numerous, but these Orcs are not men. They are weak willed without a leader to guide them. And Tar-Medine himself has a weakness. We need only exploit it and then do away with him, then any threat he poses to the Seven Kingdoms- be it now or in the future, will be erased."

"You have a plan, then." Baldric wagered, glancing towards Rhae. "Or else you wouldn't have introduced us."

"I do." Jon confirmed. "It won't be easy. The Orcs are ferocious fighters who don't share the same weaknesses as a host of levies. They do not desert or break easily, but there is one weakness they have which will make this possible."

Xxx

 **9** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Morgund'dur**

" _Their Captains fight among themselves for greater influence, or for the sake of pride. I know of one Captain who would be perfect for our needs._ "

In the stables of Lobra the Wolf, Jon dropped down into plain view and was briefly met with drawn blades and snarling faces before a sharp whistle silenced them. Lobra, astride his favoured cazarin, Mugs, rode towards Jon and dismounted to kneel before him. Slowly, the rest of his men followed their Captain's example. The Stranger appeared by Jon's side and offered a nod of approval at the sight of a ready and available army.

" _Tar-Medine's weakness is guarded by one of his elite Captains, a War Chief by the name of Hurok. He is known to supplement his forces with that of Captains who gain his interest; no small feat. He rarely leaves the fortress, but his men are known to wander when their shifts end. As we don't have time to wait for them to notice our friend's work, I will ensure that they bear witness."_

Jon later observed several of Hurok's men, known by the other Orcs as Berserkers, as they leisurely slaughtered several of their kind who had either crossed them or simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. From a watch tower where the arbalests were now securely in his control, he witnessed the group of four Berserkers, distinguished by their black armour and red tattoos, leave behind corpses twice their number and frighten away witnesses with boisterous roars and bloodied blades held high.

As they walked back towards their own territory, Jon waited until they passed through an area without prying eyes. At his signal Skani rangers who had stalked them from the roof tops brought down three of their number while Jon leapt down and forced the lone survivor to the ground. Following a brief flash of green, the Berserker arose a loyal follower.

" _Lobra the Wolf has a rivalry with another Captain, Vulg Pyrodancer- don't give me that look, I didn't pick the name. He may be new, but his ambition has made an impression. We're going to help Lobra resolve this rivalry once and for all in a way that will get Hurok's attention."_

An orc cackled as he cracked his whip against the back of an Essosi man who cried out and just barely retained his footing, his back already sorely marked and bloodied by the persisting torment. The other men shackled to him by the ankles bore similar scars and did not acknowledge their fellow's agony, focused on their task of passing stones up out of a quarry and piling them into carts to be ferried back to the fortress. There were multiple lines of slaves attending to this labour.

" _In the meantime we will conduct raids to gather information and free prisoners. There are Skani taken by raiding parties into the south and foreign sailors who have shipwrecked here. They are either tossed to the dungeons or use as slave labour. With luck, we'll find Lord Seaworth and the Giantsbane among the latter._ "

One man standing at the edge of the quarry groaned as he accepted a rock passed up, his arms quivering from exhaustion. He collapsed upon the rock with a groan, prompting the next man in line to try and usher him to his feet, speaking urgently before the same orc overseer took notice and barked an order, pointing to the collapsed slave. Two orcs moved forward with blades unsheathed, roughly dragging the man up to his feet as one positioned their dagger at his throat.

Then an arrow pierced through their own necks and torsos, flinging one down into the quarry where his mass crashed down through some wooden scaffolding. The orcs and slaves on the ground above looked towards the source to see Orc arbalests and bowmen at the nearby tree-line, with some Skani rangers hidden out of sight providing their own discreet support. Others mounted on cazarin charged out into the open and pounced upon the nearest overseers who tried to sound the alarm while the slaves cowered and stayed low to the ground.

Lobra the Wolf held a spear high and bellowed a war cry, driving his men towards and down into the quarry where more of Vulg's fighters found themselves outnumbered and taken by surprise. Some slaves were killed amidst the fighting, but by the time the last of Vulg's men were vanquished and Lobra's had withdrawn almost four out of every five slaves were still alive. Jon broke cover, joined by a mixture of warriors from Skane, Skagos and Westeros to begin freeing as many as possible.

As the slaves were herded out to freedom, Jon took notice of a single Orc who still cast a red glare when viewed through the Wraith World, laying among his fallen comrades and pretending to share their deceased state.

The Bright Stranger appeared by Jon's side and held up a hand when Jon reached for his dagger. After conversing, Jon nodded and instead grabbed the orc up by the throat before clamping one hand down on the side of their face.

" _ **OT SEGAR MINA!**_ "

 _Your secrets are mine._

The orc's eyes glazed over, and his knowledge flowed into Jon. After he was done he let the orc up and sent him off, the brand of a white hand over their face. Seeing this, Jon was momentarily reminded of the Branded in Melisandre's service and felt a momentary discomfort at the similarity. Shaking his head, he raced off after is company.

" _I will take any opportunity I can to gather more information on Vulg. All I know right now is that he is in charge of one of the forges and seeks to expand. That requires raw materials, wood and stone in particular, which require labourers. We'll take as much of all three from him as we can._ "

Astrid's eagle flew over a logging camp flying Vulg's flaming banner. Dozens of slaves toiled at cutting down trees under the watchful eye of orcs in watch towers and more on the ground carrying spiked morning stars. Nearby, the Warg's eyes shed their milky film and she whispered to Baldric where he was coughed by her side, then to Rhae who was across from him.

They briefly discussed their plan and then divided their forces, striking from the eastern and western sides of the camp. Arrows picked off the orcs on the three towers while rangers nimbly followed the long cords connecting them, crossing far above where the workers and their overseers remained unawares. Then once they were in position Baldric blew a war horn which caused arrows to rain down on the orcs while stoneborn and green clad skirmishers broke cover.

The fighting was brief, with some losses for the attacking party on the ground, but only a portion of what the orcs suffered. Baldric personally brought his battle axe down and split the skull of the last surviving orc before directing his men to get to work on breaking chains. Nearby, Astrid knelt over a Magnar warrior who had been stabbed from behind during the struggle, taking a moment to close his eyes.

" _It won't be without losses on our side. We have less than two hundred, and Lobra claims that the fortress has no less than six thousand at any time. I don't know how they sustain their numbers, but the cold truth is they can outlast us in a fight of attrition."_

At both the stone quarry and the logging camp, the banner of Lobra's company is left as a sign of who is responsible. The Skani are meticulous in collecting their arrows (marked with colourful bands to make them easier to find) and any fallen Westerosi are taken along to hold up the illusion of multiple successful raids by Lobra's Black Riders. Reinforcements from Vulg's ranks sort through the dead riddled with the arrows roughly crafted by orc hands, with those at the logging camp finding a few bodies which had been quickly administered a cazarin's attention as well as paw prints to further support the fiction.

" _We need to make them bleed as much as we can while taking as few losses on our side as possible; and we need everything we do to look like Lobra's handiwork. If it looks like he has outside help it will undermine him and set us back._ "

Both banners were torn down and taken to Vulg's forge within Morgund'dur. Other survivors of patrols and guard details reported their own tales of attack by the Black Riders, with word spreading to the other factions and Captains: within a single day Lobra the Toothless Wolf had avenged Vulg's insults against him and stolen many of his slaves. The Berserkers and other unaffiliated Orcs who bore witness to some of these skirmishes (thanks to some slight but calculated changes in patrol routes) aided in dispensing this gossip, as their word was taken at greater value due to serving directly under a War Chief.

Only a few of the mouths spreading this had needed Jon's unique method of persuasion.

Xxx

 **10** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Morgund'dur, Brawler Pits**

" _Vulg will personally be issued a challenge, and he won't let it stand. He won't be able to afford that. And when he comes out to deal with Lobra, that is when we can strike._ "

The banners of Lobra's Black Riders and Vulg's Fireborn fluttered in the wind along the perimeter of a small arena made of materials lashed and bolted together in an arrangement that would have made any decent carpenter or architect weep. It was established in the woods near the various logging camps to allow for Captains to entertain their troops or settle disputes if one should cross over into another's promised section of forest. Orcs from both factions crowded the deck overlooking a space best suited to a small amount of fighters, with empty cages lining the interior while a single gate provided easy entry.

Lobra and Mugs were already in position, the latter snoozing on the ground while the former leaned against the cazarin's flank, arms crossed with a smug expression.

" _One thing about Orcs that will be of particular benefit to us is that their concept of politics is much…faster than what we are used to. When anything happens here, it happens fast. If we work quickly we can successfully execute these raids tomorrow, arrange the duel the day after and have Lobra's men in position in a week. If more needs to be done, then it can be done as needed; until we come to that bridge we focus on arranging Vulg's final hours._ "

"Vulg! Vulg! Vulg!" The Fireborn Orcs bashed the bases of their spears against the boards beneath them and clashed their axes to the faces of their shields in rhythm with their chant.

Their commander entered the arena, accompanied by four others. Vulg was taller than Lobra, leaner and wearing a helmet resembling a claw closed around his head from behind, with the individual digits loosely converging in front of his nose to provide a makeshift visor behind which wide yellow eyes glared hatefully. With one hand he held a roughly shaped sword with a curve to the blade, and with the other he doused it in oil.

"You just never learn." Vulg hissed, drawing a second sword and crossing the twin blades together. "I was going to let you live on, y'know. But after all you've done now? Kill my men. Steal my slaves. Muck up my plans!"

The blades shrieked along one another and burst into flames.

"Now you've got my full attention, Toothless Wolf." A grin of rotting teeth flashed beneath Vulg's helm as his four bodyguards ignited their weapons. "You won't have too long to regret that."

Lobra pulled himself into Mugs' saddle. "Can't even face me alone?! You're all spark and no flame. You and your cazarin hatin' shits are gettin' what you deserve today!" He snarled.

" _Vulg will have the advantage, even if he leaves his bodyguards out of the duel. Lobra does not do well around fire, particularly when it's on him. However, this will not be an honourable duel on any terms._ "

Vulg and his men advanced, spreading out to surround Lobra in a semi-circle and close in. Lobra shuddered at the heat radiating from his enemies' weapons and eased Mugs back towards the arena wall, finding himself penned in.

" _Because we are going to kill Vulg and make it seem that he attempted to use the duel as a trap, thereby making Lobra's victory all the more impressive._ "

From far above, Jon leapt down and brought the Fist of the First Men into the ground. An intense chill stole through the arena as frost quickly spread out from where the hammer impacted, snuffing out the flames on the surrounding orcs' weapons and making their breaths visible as they stumbled away in shock.

" _But this means there can be no survivors outside of Lobra's command. If even one gets away to suggest outside involvement, we're fucked._ "

On the watch towers surrounding the arena, archers placed by Vulg in advance lay dead while Skani rangers let loose, cutting down many Fireborn crowding one side of the arena. Black Riders immediately threw themselves into battle, using the element of surprise to thin their enemy's numbers before they even knew what was happening. Outside the arena, more skirmishes broke out as Fireborn took notice of the threat and took up arms.

Back inside, Lobra cackled and urged Mugs forward, having the cazarin pounce on the nearest Fireborn and tear their head off along, pulling free a good portion of their spine. Jon parried away a stab from Vulg and ducked under the orc's guard to deliver a blow to his side, but the Pyrodancer lived up to his name and nimbly stepped out of reach before retaliating, locking his blades with the Fist and bringing him and Jon face to face.

"You?!" Vulg snarled incredulously. "I don't know how you survived that fall, man-swine, but when I'm done with you, you'll wish nothing more than for the ocean to swallow you up aAGH!"

Jon had broken the lock and kicked the orc back, sending him sprawling in the now frozen mud. "You talk too much."

Vulg looked towards the arena's gates as if to ponder a swift retreat, but found them already closing. "No! Don't close the gate!"

The large wooden doors finished swinging shut. On the other side, Ser Narbert Grandison personally helped to push over a hinge mounted beam which fell into place, barring the arena shut.

"Kill them all, lads!" He shouted to his men, who like him were clad in orc armour and rags that had made them appear as Black Riders to the distant, unobservant eye of the Fireborn. "Let them feel R'hllor's wrath!"

Baldric Magnar and Rhae led their men out into the open, reinforcing the Black Riders and their cazarin. Branded torched tents and sent their occupants sprawling out into view where they were quickly butchered. It would not be a bloodless event on the side of the Westerosi, but with the Black Riders' numbers and the element of surprise the battle was quickly becoming a slaughter.

Several fighters scrambled up ladders to clear the arena, led by Rhae who personally put an arrow into one of Vulg's remaining guards while the other was dispatched by Lobra's spear. The Pyrodancer himself fought the Grave Walker with a desperate ferocity, like a cornered animal lashing out. Jon had taken up a sword donated by Baldric and was letting his enemy exhaust himself, constructing a defence which Vulg could not hope to breach with his lack of form or signature flaming blades.

Among the recruits at Castle Black, Jon had seemed like a seasoned veteran of battle in comparison.

After years spent fighting Free Folk, wights and their masters he may as well have been the Warrior reborn for all of Vulg's efforts.

Finally, seeing the Pyrodancer's chest heave with heavy breaths and his arms struggle to keep up the continuous assault, Jon struck from overhead and put him on the defence. Vulg barely managed to bring one blade up to defend and was quickly disarmed of it after Jon bashed him across the cranium with a pommel strike. Jon gave him no time to even think of retrieving it or recovering his wits, feinting from the right only to slip his blade under Vulg's remaining sword and cutting upwards from the left, parting hand from wrist and drawing a howl from the Pyrodancer as his hand was flung away, weapon still in its grasp.

"AUGH! You wretched soft skinned-" The stream of expletives did not slow even as Lobra dismounted Mugs and slowly approached Vulg where he knelt, clutching the stump of his wrist. "-I'll fucking kill you! Burn you and your whole family and eat your flesh as it melts off your bones! Do you hear me?! I-"

"Mugs." Lobra sneered. "Kill."

Mugs, recognizing Vulg as the one who had scarred the cazarin now a few days ago, gladly complied. Snapping its jaws shut around Vulg's leg, it reared up and flung him into the air before slamming him facedown and then dragging him several feet, which its prey spent wailing and clawing at the ground. Mugs stopped and planted one foreleg atop Vulg's back, using the leverage to rip the leg off entirely and fling it away as Vulg's cries turned into high pitched shrieks…then choked gurgling as the cazarin continued its work.

Then there was silence as the Pyrodancer succumbed, his head lifted away from his mutilated body by Mugs. The cazarin, whose entire front was stained almost pitch black, tossed the head to its master's feet and received a pat on the head.

"Good Mugs." Lobra chuckled. "Feel all better now, boy? Ohhhh I bet you do!"

"Remember your next part." Jon commanded as the gates were unlocked and pulled back open to the view of the encampment outside in flames and dotted with pikes tipped by severed heads, cazarin feasting upon the bodies left crumpled in piles and the combined Westerosi forces departing with their own fallen.

"Aye, m'lord!" Lobra knelt. "The remaining Fireborn will scatter, but I'll snatch up as many as I can and…" He looked thoughtful of his next words. "…explain to them why they want to work for me, even if they don't know it yet."

"See that it's done." Jon stepped out of the arena through a flow of Black Rider Orcs chanting their captain's name, many of them bearing a white brand upon their faces.

Outside, he was met by Rhae and several Skani rangers doing one final sweep for stray weirwood arrows. She held one hand to her lips and whistled, signalling her men to finish up and follow. They passed one of Jon's enthralled Berserkers, who knelt and then raced off upon receiving a nod from the Grave Walker.

" _We can't account for everything, but Orcs aren't known for being sharp of mind. They are conditioned to accept what they are told from a superior, perceived or real. If we can only convince Hurok, then it won't matter if every Orc under his command suspects deception."_

Xxx

 **8** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Greencrown**

"Once the Black Riders are in position, we attack and make enough of a nuisance of ourselves that the Berserkers will need to be dispatched to fight us." Jon addressed the collective ranks of the assorted warriors now gathered in Greencrown. "When they are depleted enough, the Black Riders will strike and give us an opening to steal away Tar-Medine's source of power."

"You'd need an army twenty times our number." Baldric reasoned, but it appeared that Jon's words had his interest at least. "At the very least."

"We don't aim to conquer the fortress." Jon shook his head. "We need only draw their attention and force them to dispatch the Berserkers. After that we can begin to break off the attack and retreat after our goal is achieved. Tar-Medine will be vulnerable, easy prey for a dragon I'd wager."

Xxx

 **Ashcrown, a short while later**

"NO!" Daemon pointed his staff in Jon's face, almost sending him sprawling from sheer surprise. "Absolutely not."

Rhae moved forward. "But father-"

"I said no!" Daemon cracked his staff against the ground. "Sheep will not fight your battle and I'll be fucked by a shark before you take my Rhae into that place!"

They hadn't even finished explaining their plan before the old man had cut them off at the mention of Sheepstealer finishing off his old foe.

"Father, this is our chance!" Rhae persisted. "Long have we prayed for the day when we could live free of our enemy, and now you'd turn away from it? You're the one who convinced Snow and his men to do this in the first place!"

"And gave me ample motive to see it through." Jon added, but went unacknowledged.

"Yes, them." Daemon agreed. "Not you. Never you."

"I am Sheep's Rider!"

"And I am the Lord of Ashcrown!" Daemon thundered. "If we lose Sheep, Mother Skane shall be vulnerable! And if I lose you…" The old man's frame seemed to deflate as his milky eyes cleared to reveal purple orbs wide with fright. "No, you won't battle Tar-Medine, even if this scheme succeeds. Even in that state he will fight like a cornered animal. The Grave Walker here can finish the job."

"You showed me the consequence of throwing my life away." Jon countered.

"Yet you can still afford to die many times before it becomes any concern." Daemon gave no ground. "Do not ask me to send the two most important to me off to die. I'll hear no more of this." He shuffled away, grumbling under his breath.

Rhae made to follow after, but Jon stopped her. "Wait."

"He'll listen to me before he listens to you." She said, but did nothing to stop him from brushing past her.

" _He listens to one of far greater influence than her._ " The Stranger sniped, his words conveyed through Jon in a less crude manner of speech.

After they were far enough from Rhae, Jon whispered. "What did that mean?"

" _I know the eyes of a man trapped in his past._ " The Stranger said. " _He listens to the ghost of someone else he lost to our foe._ "

They found Daemon at his own hut, located closest to the gathering place before the Heartree's face. The old man refused them entry twice before Jon dispensed with any semblance of manners and pushed through the curtains hanging over the doorway.

"Away with you!" Daemon hollered, taking up his staff and making to rise from his seat. "I've given you all I care to, you'll have no more favours from me, boy!"

 _Perhaps for your next favour you'll somehow bring Rickon here and deliver him to Tar-Medina next._

"Not even their name?" Jon asked on the Stranger's behalf.

The old man stopped halfway up. "What? Who's name?"

"The name of whoever rode off to fight Tar-Medine before." Jon pressed. "Your wife? A sibling?" He observed Daemon's reactions, both in his facial expression and body language. "No…a parent?"

Daemon's eyes shifted away from him.

"Father?" Jon saw the aged hands tighten around the knotted weirwood. "No, of course not. It was your mother."

"Enough!" Daemon hissed, his rage bringing many of his arachnid companions out of hiding to stare at Jon as they descended on silk lines to hover around him or scuttle around his feet. "You speak of things you know nothing of!"

But Jon did know. He'd had his own suspicions and queries before now, but had always put the mission ahead of asking about an old man's bygone prime. Many small things clicked together and were propelled by a hunch that he'd sat on since first coming to Ashcrown.

"I know more than you think." Jon brushed aside several of the spiders and stepped closer. "It was your mother. She flew away to face him and never returned. Sheepstealer survived but you couldn't muster your courage to mount up and finish what she started. Now you don't want to see history repeat itself, which is where I enter the narrative: a convenient and highly motivated proxy to do what you refuse to let Rhae attempt. Stop me if anything I've said is wrong."

Not a word of protest or denial.

Jon knelt before the Weaver, who lowered himself back into his seat. "You want to protect the only family you have in all the world. I can empathize, so could my father. He taught us the values of honour, chivalry and integrity…but he coddled us, left us ill prepared for the reality of the world."

"And what reality is that?" Daemon asked through clenched teeth, his aggression apparently subdued.

Jon was taken back to the instances in his life which had defined the world outside of the glass garden that his father had built to protect his children. Some of these moments had been witnessed first hand, others had been shown to him upon the Fist.

"Love and duty."

 _What is honour compared to a woman's love?_ Maester Aemon had asked him an eternity ago. _What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms, or the memory of a brother's smile?_

"Love is the death of duty, and in his unending love for his children Ned Stark failed in his duty to prepare us. Love cost my brother Robb his head, cut his mother's throat and butchered his unborn babe. Love has started needless wars and reaped needless deaths."

The Weaver appeared to be drawn in by Jon's speech. "What is life without anything to love? Can your pretty words provide the same meaning you get when watching your first child draw its first breath? Can they offer sweet anodyne if you live to watch them draw their last?" He asked, his eyes watering.

 _Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us to love. It is our great glory and our great tragedy._

"They can't." Jon shook his head. "But you are the Lord of Ashcrown, charged with the duty of protecting your people against all foreseeable threats. You love your daughter, but it is possible to love someone so much that your priorities become skewed and you neglect your duty to them and all else. Lord Daemon, the undeniable truth is that I can't defeat Tar-Medine on my own, nor can Sheepstealer contend with him alone and so far from here. I _need_ their help as much as they need mine to solve this and you are causing more danger to her than I ever could through your protective fixation-"

"Enough!" Daemon barked. "You sit there and you speak to me in such a tone, in my own home no less! I will not-"

"Then what will you stand for?!" Jon demanded, channeling the Stranger's ire. "Because from where I stand, I see a frightened old man who stands for _nothing!_ "

After a short silence Daemon expelled a shuddering breath and leaned forward, propping an elbow against his leg and putting his face in his hand. "Fucking Bastard…" he whispered. "For all my power here…for all that Ashcrown gives me, I really am not but an old man anywhere else. An old man with many eyes, but an old man all the same. All I could do was watch them, Jon Snow; watch better riders, better leaders than me fly off to their doom, one after the other. My mother…was only the last to try."

He stretched out one arm to where one of his spiders had lowered itself back down. It plopped onto his hand and moved slowly, deliberately along his sleeve.

"To have so much power, so much potential and yet be powerless to do anything but watch…that is a true curse." Daemon stroked one finger along the spider's body. "…keep them safe, even if you must die a thousand times before either of them. Swear to that, and they will have my blessing."

Xxx

 **10** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Skane, Morgund'dur**

The messenger arrived late in the night, bearing a standard of the Berserkers and a scroll with orders.

The Black Riders were called to supplement Hurok's forces in guarding the Pit the day after tomorrow.

Lobra held the scroll up like a grand prize from atop Mugs, moving through the throng of Black Riders celebrating their success. "Break out the grog, lads! Tonight, we feast like kings!"

On a nearby structure, the crumbling remains of a building that had suffered from one of the more enthusiastic internal disputes of Morgund'dur's army, he saw a figure rise into view, only just visible when the clouds shifted enough to let beams of moonlight through. Lobra handed the scroll off to a lieutenant and rode Mugs away from the festivities. He dismounted and stepped into the shadows of what few pillars had withstood whatever had caused the rest of the building to crumble.

"It is done, Barhdgul." Lobra knelt as Jon emerged from the shadows. "My men will be in position in two days."

"Then the plan proceeds." Jon replied, taking the scroll when it was offered. "How many do you have?"

"With any remnants of Vulg's…about four hundred." Lobra shrugged. "But I'll need every set of hand is ca get to clear out the Pit, even after you draw as many Berserkers as possible away."

"That is being taken care of." Jon looked to one side and motioned with his head.

Lobra looked in the indicated direction as three figures stepped into his field of vision, armour and weapons glinting from the distant light of torches and camp fires.

"I knew the fortress wouldn't fall easily, so I acquired reinforcements." Jon told him. "Worry for maintaining your cover, we will handle the rest."

Xxx

End of Chapter

 **What's this? Can it be an Author's Note?**

 **By George's beard, it is!**

 **First off, I apologize for the longer periods between downloads. Life can't help but interfere, it seems. Well, life and writer's block.**

 **Second...what do you all think of letting you submit ideas for your own Orc captains?**

 **All you need is to send me a PM detailing the following...**

 **Name (with optional title)**

 **Class (Warrior, Archer, Defender, Hunter or Savage)**

 **Advanced Class (Assassin, Beastmaster, Berserker, Commander, Destroyer, Marksman, Tank or Trickster)**

 **Tribe (Dark, Feral, Machine, Marauder, Mystic, Terror or Warmonger)**

 **Strengths**

 **Weaknesses**

 **A brief description of their appearance can be optionally added.**

 **I have ideas of my own for Captains, but I thought I'd engage with the readers a little. This format uses the class/tribe system from Shadow of War, so with a little research it won't be any trouble to slap together your own Captain.**


	21. Chapter 20: Battle of Morgund'dur-Part 1

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

 **A/N: Man, this one took a long time. I kept going back through it to edit one thing or another, including removing any mention of Asha Greyjoy's preferences, as I'd forgotten that while her TV portrayal (Yara Greyjoy) might be bisexual, word of god (as the big brilliant bearded bastard himself) has it that Asha is not. This is what happens when I mix book and show elements, I suppose.**

 **Also, for any who feel that the Skane arc has dragged on for too long: I'm utilizing it to help introduce the supernatural/LOTR aspects as well as help me shake out any kinks that I have in my writing style, so to speak. So I do hereby pledge to my loyal readers the following: future plot arcs will not take so long, at least not the obvious ones like 'Jon goes to Skane', whereas more subtle ones akin to political machinations and plots amidst the kingdoms will likely go on for a while on the side.**

 **Originally Jon was supposed to go to Skagos and find it divided between the Cannibal (Smaug stand-in) and the Sheepstealer, but then my mind got into overdrive and this was the result. I realized that I didn't want this to be a story where Jon blitzes through everything and goes on to right all of the wrongs in the world. Now, granted, he's had success at building himself a small but impressive army, but that was mainly done by dominating four orcs and staging ambushes and guerilla strikes, with the benefit of the Loyalist Orcs having no expectation of an army of humans (supplied with information from dominated Orcs no less) attacking them. And Jon was also lucky to have high quality troops (Skani rangers who in my mind are akin to the Dunedain, handpicked knights and the cream of the Karstark and Thenn crop, battle hardened Magnar warriors who I view as being Baldric's Housecarls, etc) but guerilla tactics with relatively well trained and equipped forces is different from what I have in mind for the future.**

 **Jon will lose. He will lose battles, friends, loved ones (some who I guarantee will surprise you, but not like how the 'Dumb and Dumber' School of Subversion would try to pull the rug out from under you and then say it forgot you were standing there) and will not have an easy time of it. He will be forced to grow, as will others around him as the true scope of the wars to come is revealed.**

 **So hang onto your Ratbag, drown the Bruz and shoot the Ranger: because we're in the endgame on Skane now.**

Xxx

 **Chapter Twenty: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part One: the Assault**

 **10th Day of the 11t** **h** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **The North, Deepwood Motte**

By her fourth day as a guest of Sybelle Glover, Maraiya's time in Deepwood Motte had become noticeably less stressful. The men assigned to her by the Big Bucket actually included several women, much to her surprise, which led to the revelation that the Mountain Clans and the Mormont of Bear Island had something in common. They had been sociable enough, lacking the same lifetime of being taught to never look those of higher birth in the eye or be anything less than fully accommodating and pleasant for fear of being perceived as inflicting an imagined slight, and had made her feel secure enough to wander.

At one point she'd encountered Asha Greyjoy as the Ironborn was escorted to stand before the King. To see the one who had sought to plunder and conquer their homeland now in chains and helpless had brought no shortage of satisfaction to the Northmen, as well as any Essosi who were familiar enough with piracy to detest it. But beyond a few jeers and thrown snowballs the self proclaimed Queen of the Iron Isles had little to fear and had responded brazenly, even

Stannis had announced before a gathering of Lords and Knights that Greyjoy's uncle, Rodrik 'the Reader' Harlaw, had agreed to an exchange: her for Lady Sybelle's children, who had reportedly been treated well at Ten Towers even before her capture had become known. Some were dissatisfied with this, wishing to see her sacrificed or at least given some punishment for her part in terrorizing the North in previous years, but Alysane Mormont had surprisingly convinced them that this was the better course.

Asha Greyjoy's uncle, who had been proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, had wed her to one Erik Ironmaker, reputed as an obese and ineffective Lord now that his youth was far behind him. She was clearly not eager to consummate this marriage and vowed to fight it, and her uncle was likely to support her against this ruling and against Euron Greyjoy. An Ironborn civil war meant they would have fewer ships and opportunities to raid the North with for the foreseeable future.

Of course the she-bear had not phrased it that elegantly.

"Send her back and let the squid fuckers spend a little time knifing one another for a change while we deal with the Flayers. I'm bored of butchering Ironcunts anyways."

Then she broke the nose of one man who had tried to command her to silence and would have taken the head of another if Stannis had not restored order.

An interesting bunch, those Mormont women.

Besides that, her stay had also been uneventful- not that she considered that a bad thing. After travelling unaccompanied over many leagues without the creature comforts she'd taken for granted, Maraiya was happy to return to a mundane routine. She kept herself busy helping with putting together supplies for the coming battles, from clean bandages to ingredients needed for medicines requested by Maester Colin.

Among those she'd come to associate with were Talia and Ryon Forrester, accompanied by their scarred and blunt sellsword bodyguard Beshka and the youngest she-bear: Lyanna Mormont, who was only ten and yet verbally lashed grown men and physically brutalized recruits.

It was Talia who, as they returned to the keep, drew their attention to the sparring ring. "Maraiya, look!"

Men hurled encouragement and taunts over the ring of clashing steel. Beyond the wooden boundary were four men locked in combat: two using short swords, another a hammer and the fourth a long, slender rapier.

 _Syronos!_

She hadn't been able to speak with him more than in passing, as the First Sword of the Free Blades had been sent out on patrols or assigned to oversee training of levies to the point of being completely unavailable. Now she was treated to the sight of him dancing about the ring, leading his three opponents on a merry chase.

Ryon eagerly raced up to the edge of the ring. "Are they using live steel?"

"But of course, boy." An Essosi chuckled. "The Captain always spars that way."

"What if someone gets hurt?" Maraiya asked, tracking Syronos as he slapped the flat of his blade against the heavily padded torso of one man and then sidestepped a the hammer wielder.

"War is pain, good lady." The sellsword shrugged. "The enemy won't stop because you are injured on the battlefield, so we train to teach that to our recruits."

"Yield!" One of the swordsmen cried after taking a hit to their dominant arm that broke their grip and disarmed them.

"Perhaps the Captain will teach it to some of the King's knights." The sellsword added with a shrug.

Syronos took a glancing hit half a minute later, but in return his attacked was bashed against the top of their helmet and yielded after taking two light hits in quick succession. The last fighter tried to take advantage of this to press Syronos towards a corner of the ring, quickly forcing him back before he could consider strafing to either side.

"He moves so fast." Ryon said in astonishment.

"Braavosi water dancing." Beshka crossed her arms. "Not my style, but you know a master when you see him."

"He's going to be cornered!" Talia cried.

"I pity him." Beshka said dryly.

"You just named him a master, yet you're sure he'll lose?" Maraiya asked.

"Not him that I pity," Beshka chuckled. "I pity the idiot with the hammer. Watch."

Syronos' final enemy, chest heaving from exertion, had him backed into the corner with nowhere to go. Seeing the Bravo robbed of his mobility, he moved in to finish him off only for Syronos to launch himself off of the corner post. The Bravo dropped his rapier, dipped down wrapped his arms around the startled man's thighs as his hammer swing sailed wide. With a grunt of exertion Syronos lifted the fighter up and flung him back down like a sack of flour. Before he could even think of recovering his breath he found Syronos' dagger hovering near his throat.

"Yi-yield." The man coughed. "What was that?"

"It is called a takedown." Syronos sheathed his dagger. "To put it shortly: I cheated."

"How'd you even lift me in all this armour?" The man rapped a hand against the thick chest piece he wore.

"You aren't in full plate armour like a knight. Never try that move against them." Syronos warned, now addressing the other recruits while retrieving his rapier. "A man in full plate armour is a terror on the battlefield, even when unmounted. House Frey has donated hundreds to the Boltons and for all their many failings they will be better trained than most of you by the time you meet them in battle."

"What should we do when that happens?" Another recruit asked.

"Cheat." Syronos answered plainly. "If they ride at you-" he took a longsword from one man and assumed a stance which would point the tip at an imaginary rider while placing the weapon between himself and a downwards blow. "-knock them off, strike high to catch them in the chest or head with the longest weapon you can get your hands on. Don't let them get up, don't even let them have a chance to catch their breath."

He returned the weapon to its owner and snatched a spear next. "Spears work best. Stab them from a safe distance and aim for weak points, anywhere that you can slip it in. You'll have a better chance with the joints or from behind, damn anyone who calls it dishonourable." He tossed it back and motioned dismissively. "You're dismissed. Ser Ormund has graciously volunteered to help anyone who wishes to practice against a real knight. Don't let his age fool you like it did me!"

The men dispersed, and Maraiya was quick to make her way to Syronos as her entourage scattered about the yard to keep watch. "Captain Dirrin, are you wounded?"

While removing his own padded armour Syronos shook his head. "A few bruises. Nothing that will kill me. But your concern is appreciated, Lady Bell."

"So this is the one then?" Beshka asked, giving Maraiya a knowing grin. "Now I see why you spoke so fondly of him."

 _Beshka. Please stop._

"Oh? Doth my reputation precede me?" Syronos handed off the armour to one of his men.

"I told them of how you and Chief Wull saved me." Maraiya clarified.

"Are you really a water dancer?" Ryon asked, looking at the rapier sheathed at the Dirrin's hip. "I've never seen fighting like that!"

"Aye, that I am, young lord." Syronos nodded, indulging the boy's curiosity with a warm and welcome disposition. "If you've any interest in learning, I could convince one of my officers to appoint you a tutor until the end of this campaign, but it would come at a cost"

"I want to learn!" Ryon nodded. "I'm not…big as my brothers were at my age, I don't see myself getting big and strong like them later…but I'm fast! Gerold Glenmore's been teaching me archery and said I had the right build for a scout."

"I'm inclined to agree with him." Syronos chuckled. "Alright, Young Lord, speak to your Lord-Brother and I'm sure it can be arranged."

"I will! My thanks, Captain!" Ryon raced off while Lyanna Mormont rolled her eyes at his retreating form.

"He'll be up all night about this now." Beshka sighed and followed after the young boy.

"He's scared to spar with me, but he flocks to a foreign man." Lyanna sighed in exasperation. "Boys."

"Everyone's scared to spar with you." Talia teased.

"But only half as scared as the Boltons should be." Syronos added. "I saw your work in the ring, Lady Lyanna. If you are truly the youngest bear in your family then I shudder to imagine how ferocious your sisters must be."

"You might never know. Only Alysane, her children and myself remain." Lyanna answered, her jaw tightening slightly before she continued. "My eldest sister Dacey was butchered by the Freys at the Red Wedding, while Jorelle and Lyra have not been seen since. The same can be said of my mother."

"My condolences." Syronos bowed his head solemnly.

"I don't tell you this for pity, sellsword." Lyanna said sharply. "I tell you so that you understand why I follow a southern King: vengeance for the lost. You and yours have served Stannis loyally, but a sellsword's only true loyalty is to coin, no matter what platitudes they offer. If I find one hint that any company or house seeks to break ranks to join with Roose Bolton I will not hesitate to have every traitor's head put on a pike to line the shores of my home as a reminder that some agreements come at too high a price."

She rested her hand on the hilt of a hatchet hanging from her belt. "Make sure that _all_ of your mercenary friends know that, should they ever come by Bolton gold." She stormed past him, ignoring Maraiya's affronted call.

"Lyanna!"

"Peace, Lady Bell." Syronos raises one hand. "She's lost too much to trust easily ever again, and my men and I as well as the others commissioned by Stannis are, as she stated succinctly: sellswords. She would be foolish to trust us easily."

"But to outright threaten you when you've been nothing but loyal…"

"Every army has its traitors." Syronos shook his head. "Why do you think I've been too busy to share in your company these past three days?"

"We'd…been told you were out on patrol." Talia said, eyes widened with concern.

"It doesn't do well for morale to announce that almost two-score men tried to set fire to the supply stocks and make off with horses in some ill conceived scheme to win the Boltons' favour." Syronos' words were soft, perhaps to keep the clansmen accompanying her from hearing. "But that is mainly for the rank and file's benefit. It's like I said: one would be foolish to trust sellswords so easily."

"Even you?" Maraiya asked, not wanting to think that the man who had saved her from capture, who had been quick to stand up for her against the likes of Ser Clayton Suggs would turn his cloak so easily.

"If I said I was the exception, would you truly believe me?" He asked, letting the question hang in the ensuing silence before his eyes wandered to Maraiya's waist. "Ah, getting used to carrying your family blade around?"

It was a quick change of topic, but a welcome one. Maraiya's hand brushed over Nightfall's crossguard as she remembered the presence of the Valyrian steel blade. "Yes, I…have been advised that leaving it unguarded would be a poor choice."

"Whoever suggested that is wise." Syronos nodded. "Though I confess, I am curious. Some light reading and inquiry has led me to a claim that House Harlaw possesses a Valyrian blade of the same name as this one."

For a sellsword he did an incredible amount of reading. Perhaps he and Rodrik Harlaw had that in common.

"They do." Mariah said. "But that is mere coincidence. My family has held this since before they followed their liegelords to the North, and named it for other family weapons dating back as far as recorded history. The other Nightfall was wielded by Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, a century after Aegon's Conquest when he slew a Corsair who wielded it."

Syronos was not the only one who liked to read in their spare time, and Archmaester Mancaster's work was preferable to _anything_ written by Grandmaester Malleon. Then again, literally anything was preferable to that.

"Ah, there's a title I remember hearing." Syronos nodded. "So, this blade is at least a thousand years old and as good as the day it was forged…yet you are not proficient with it, correct?"

Maraiya's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "No, no I'm not." She muttered bitterly. "My father wanted me to learn, but…"

"Your mother put an end to such notions." He guessed. "Tell me, Lady Bell: had you the chance, would you seek to undo her decision, now that you are free of her and she is declared a traitor to the realm?"

She hadn't paid any thought to that before. The brief struggle she'd put up against the Skinner's men had been a reminder that in all of her nine and twenty years she had not led a physically active lifestyle beyond riding, swimming and more adventurous countryside strolls in her youth.

But…who was there to tell her that she couldn't learn? The sellswords wouldn't care, the Mormonts and Clansmen would be indifferent or supportive and the other Northerners and Southrons had no real say in what she did with her own time. She was a ward of the King, who showed little interest in what she did as long as it was within Deepwood Motte.

"I…think that I would." She admitted, gazing down at the sheathed blade.

"Then we'd best get started."

"What?" Maraiya looked up in surprise as Syronos climbed back into the ring. "Right now?"

"You're serious?" Talia asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" He held out an arm. "Anything better to do? Your attire isn't inappropriate for it."

Maraiya glanced down at her riding boots, trousers, tunic and long coat. "I…suppose that it wouldn't hurt."

Looking towards her escort for any sign of them taking exception to this, she found them waiting expectantly.

With no objections to be found, she climbed up onto the fence and almost stumbled before Syronos caught and steadied her, then helped her down onto her feet.

"A few basics won't take up much time." He stepped away and drew his rapier. "First, let's see you draw your sword."

Maraiya grasped Nightfall with one hand and the scabbard with the other, tugging them both in opposite directions to free the former more easily. It was something she'd seen done throughout the Baratheon encampment, from the training field outside the castle walls to men taking their blades out to clean or sharpen. It still wasn't as elegant or effortless as Syronos, but she got it out without any trouble.

Nightfall sang as it slid free, making a sound akin to the chime of a bell from the stygian alloy- though it lasted only briefly.

"Practice unsheathing it in your spare time." Syronos suggested. "The faster that you can do it while keeping it under control, the easier it will be to call upon when taken by surprise."

He held his sword up in a salute and then flicked it downwards in a salute. "Now then, a bastard sword like that is better handled with both hands when unaccompanied by a shield." He motioned towards the hilt where Maraiya added her second hand. "Since it is made of Valyrian steel, it is much lighter than your average weapon. Find yourself one of regular steel or iron to practice with as well, so that you are not limited to the least common type of weapon in the world. For now…sword up."

For almost an hour after that Syronos took her through some basic lessons: most common among them was keeping her weapon up and between her and her enemy at all times. It was nowhere close to a true lesson, but more of an assessment of her physical limits to help him understand where to begin. He had her take several swings at him and pointed out when she overreached or put too much force into the swing, taking her off balance and leaving her vulnerable to retaliation. Most of the session consisted of her being corrected on how to hold her weapon and position her body and limbs. Talia remained by the edge of the ring, enraptured while several others gathered around to watch, some expressing distaste and others interest.

Several minutes into letting her take experimental swings at his defence, Syronos said. "Break."

Breathing heavily, Maraiya backed off and offered silent thanks to the gods. "How am I?"

A pained expression crossed his face as he guided her over to the edge of the ring. "Well…there's potential, more than I'd find in most Westerosi women who have never lifted a sword. But one key part of this will be repetition. You need to strengthen your grip, learn to pace yourself and find out for yourself when and how to strike or defend. That won't come with a few quick lessons.."

Maraiya shakily set Nightfall back in its scabbard and accepted a water-skin offered by Talia. "I always knew swordplay couldn't be learnt overnight." She took a swig. "Why did you offer to help me, though? I don't wish to sound thankless, but you seem to have been…predisposed towards coming to my aid even after you brought me here."

"Do you believe that I am concealing motives most…sinister?" He asked with one brow raised.

"No! No, I…Chief Wull said that you almost immediately decided to seek me out after discovering news of my flight." Maraiya explained. "I just want to know why."

Syronos sighed and rubbed his chin. "Well, besides being fascinated by the tale he sang of your father's exploits, I still had to carry out the King's orders and a runaway heiress who the Boltons were most intent on catching seemed like a sound source of information." He leaned against the fence and crossed his arms over his chest. "As it turned out: I was correct."

Maraiya felt a little let down, but chastised herself for thinking his reasons hadn't been for practical consideration. "I see."

Perhaps it had been childish to hope, but from Maraiya's perspective her worth had always been weighed her station or looks and the appeal found in both, by what others stood to gain in benefit from her. Her mother had wanted a daughter to marry off, be it to a wealthy noble from the south or another branch of House Bell as part of her political ploys. Men had wanted her for her looks, her wealth or Nightfall.

At least Stannis Baratheon and Syronos Dirrin's interests in her were not hidden behind honeyed words. They were honest about their intentions and had not tried to manipulate her as her mother had throughout her entire life.

"Make no mistake though: I'm most glad to have met you." Syronos added. "In any case, I do and still otherwise would have considered it a detour _most_ _worthwhile_."

He climbed out of the ring and offered her a hand again. "Well, unless it had turned out to be trap."

"You suspected as much?"

"My mentor's first lesson: trust no one and nothing. And he made sure I remembered it." Syronos habitually rubbed the side of his right knee. "In his own words: when the gods shat out a second man, his first thought was to conspire to kill the first man and steal his wife." (1)

Maraiya couldn't fight down a light bout of laughter as she accepted his aid in getting back out of the ring. "That's just horrible!" She giggled.

"What if the gods made a second woman for him?" Talia asked.

"I asked the same thing once." Syronos raised his right leg off the ground slightly but quickly put it back down, then reiterated. "Once. As for why I've been so generous with small favours…during your first audience with the King it may have looked like a circle of noble born men, but I saw a pack of hyenas slowly closing around you. I imagine several of the King's men have requested your hand in marriage, some may have even asked you instead of going to the King."

There had been an offer in writing…or two…or ten.

"I saw those hyenas ready to strike. I've seen it before, from the Shadowlands to Braavos. They want you for your wealth, for your lands…and for your family blade." Syronos frowned. "I am many things…but never would I leave you to their mercy. If I did, my mentor would have been better served leaving me to be castrated and sacrificed."

There was none of the flowery words that Maraiya would have expected if he had been trying to Charm his way into her favour. Something as simple as doing upon others as he would wish for them to do unto him was not a widespread value among those who held power…but most who held power were born into it. Perhaps a man who would have otherwise amounted to nothing if not for the generosity of another could remember and appreciate such wisdom.

"Syronos, I…" Hurried steps crunches through the snow towards them.

"Captain!" Larence Snow, red faced from exertion, held up a roll of bound parchment to him. "Orders from his Grace."

"Easy, lad, breathe." Syronos took the scroll, unbound it and read its contents, his expression unreadable. "…Lady Bell, it seems you will need to consult the Mormonts or Clansmen for a tutor. I won't be able to revisit today's lesson anytime soon."

"You're leaving?" Maraiya asked, feeling a weight settle in her chest. "For another…patrol?"

"No, I'm afraid not." He shook his head. "His Grace has commanded my entire company to break camp. We march south at once and bring battle to the Flayers."

Xxx

 **12** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Skane, Morgund'dur**

The sun brought with it a red sky over Skane. Creeping up over the horizon, its light slowly spread over Morgund'dur, irritating the sentries on duty. Several retreated into the gatehouse or nearby towers to continue their watch from there while the rest endured, angling their eyes away from the glare or raising a hand to shield their eyes.

One of them was roughly spun around and felt their throat open, spilling blood down their front. Yellow eyes bulged as the sentry clutched at his throat, collapsing to his knees. Around him he witnessed several more figures dispatch the sentries close by, most of them unaware of the danger until they were already bleeding out.

 _Why?_ The sentry wanted to ask.

The Watchers had been unique in the sense that they had been given exemption from the infighting of the other factions. Anything that threatened to compromise the fortress' security could not be allowed, so assignment here had been viewed as leisurely. They had the protection of the Lord of Skane himself!

Then why…why…

The sentry gave one final gurgle and worried no more.

"Ohohoh…good work, my dears." The sentry's body was nudged to one side so that an orc whose build could be considered scrawny could step past, a slave brand clearly emblazoned upon his brow. "My beloved master will be most pleased with our work, he will." He noticed one body twitching and the lecherous smile on his face was replaced with a feral snarl as he leapt upon it and drove two curved daggers into the neck and torso, spraying black orcish blood across his pale flesh.

Rising once he was satisfied, Dûsh the Obsessed, Captain of the Carrion Blades, wagged a finger at his men. "Always be sure, dearies." He licked some of the blood off his upper lip. "Always…"

Lazily gesturing with one hand, he signalled his archers who loosed a single, scattered volley towards the treeline nearest the gate.

A lone figure emerged from the brush, stopping a hundred yards from the gate. Behind him came two others: one a short, wiry orc with burnt flesh and hands missing three fingers each, the other an older and rounder fighter strapped securely to a cazarin saddle.

More emerged. Dozens, then hundreds. Orcs bearing Jon's mark or loyal to their Captains gathered before the gates of Morgund'dur, almost a thousand strong.

"Just as you'd planned, m'lord." Grublik Four-Fingers said, pointed with his spear. "Wide Open and ready for the taking."

The mounted Captain, Takra Limp-Leg, snorted. "Still plenty of knife-work that needs doing." He looked down to Jon. "We stand ready, Barhdgul."

Jon looked to the sky where an eagle passed overhead before turning sharply for the waters to the fortress' east. "So do the rest." He drew his borrowed blade, missing the familiar grip and weight of Longclaw even if it rested in his belt.

Raising the weapon high, Jon shouted at the top of his lungs. "Today is the end of Tar'Medine! Today we shall cast the false Lord of Skane into the sea and claim this land for ourselves! Today is the last day that any Orc shall be enslaved to his whims! Come with me and take this fort! Come with me and take your freedom!" The Orcs roared and the thunderous clash of metal against metal filled the air, driving their blood thirst higher.

Jon privately murmured to the Stranger. "Thanks."

"You've your army, Jon Snow." He replied, arms crossed and glaring at the wall of Morgund'dur. "Let us see how well you put it to use."

Feeling the Stranger adding his voice, Jon levelled his weapon towards the gates and bellowed. " _ **CHARGE!"**_

A tide of flesh and metal surged past him on both sides, gnashing jaws and stamping feet. Some figures appeared within the open gate, strays investigating the disturbance, and were swept away quickly by Takra's cazarin in the first charge. Alarm bells were rung as the rebel Orcs swarmed into the Outer Bailey, cutting down unprepared defenders closest to the gate. Jon entered with the second wave of infantry, passing safely through the open gates and portcullis and under murder holes that would have poured hot oil, rocks and arrows upon the attackers if not for Dûsh, who cackled from atop a roof top where he and his men were hard at work keeping them clear of enemy archers.

The plaza was the site of a blood bath. Nearby structures expelled smoke as Grublik directed his men to flush out any occupants with torches. "Leave no stone unturned!" The scrawny Captain commanded, tugging his spear out of a downed orc's sternum. "Every one you don't kill now is another we have to clean up later!"

He saw Jon approach and bowed his head. "M'lord! First plaza secured. Takra is pushing towards the second plaza by the bridge."

"Then get the infantry after him before he gets surrounded and cut to pieces." Jon ordered before hearing something land behind him.

It turned out to be Dûsh, who didn't seem to mind having a blade pressed to his throat. "Ooh, such reflexes, m'lord." He crooned.

Once more lamenting his choice in recruitment, Jon lowered his arm. "Dûsh, take your men along the roof tops, escort the infantry to the bridge and keep the enemy archers off of their flanks. They're already organizing to repel us by now and we can't afford to be penned in."

"As my lord commands." Dûsh gave and exaggerated bow and clambered back up above street level. "Come along, men! Plenty more fun to be had towards the bridge!"

Grublik sneered after them. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be so busy fantasizing that he falls off the bridge." He suggested, and rallied his men to press onward.

Jon went with them, intent on leading from the front.

Xxx

Despite lacking a navy, Morgund'dur did maintain some dockyards with fishing vessels to help supply the garrison. Two Captains shared jurisdiction of this area, fighting one another under the great fort's shadow more than they fought actual invaders. That changed when two ships appeared from along the coast and rained weirwood arrows tipped by burning cloth. The range of the Skani Rangers and their Weirwood longbows was far above what the defenders could reach, save by using a pair of scorpions fixed in places of elevation that dominated the small bay.

Quick to man and load these siege weapons, the Orcs fired several successful volleys which landed close to their targets, even managing to tear off one of the spars on the _Sea Dragon's_ mainmast. The Skani turned their attention to the twin towers and soon the defenders had to balance fighting fires and operating the weapons.

"Longboats away!" Baldric Magnar shouted, already set to disembark for shore. "Astrid! You've the command out here!"

"Do something about those towers while you're off gallivanting!" The Warg shouted before a flaming bolt struck the _Trident_ , exploding and sending men scrambling over the sides while others tried to contain the embers that spread across the deck.

"Aw fuck me!" Baldric groaned, watching his newest ship slowly go up in flames.

"Your wife still won't consider this a good excuse." Astrid shoved him towards the nearest longboat. "Get to shore! You're crowding my deck, m'lord."

The longboats were rowed in at best speed, ploughing into the shallows where some Orcs waded out to keep them from establishing a foothold. Baldric took off the head of one just as they're grabbed hold of his longboat's prow and pulled himself over the edge. Some were struck by arrows and slumped down into their boat or tumbled over and sank into the water to either side, staining the shallows red. But the majority of the landing force was able to fight their way up onto dry land.

Knights from the southern kingdoms in steel, Skagosi Berserkers swinging axes with bloody glee, Karstark men-at-arms calling out 'Karhold', Thenn raiders bellowing in the old tongue and Branded incapable of feeling terror crashed into Orcs who reciprocated with equal fervour.

"Fight past them! For King Stannis!" Ser Narbert Grandison howled, slamming his shield into a javelin thrower and bringing the brim down on their skull. "OURS IS THE FURY!"

Baldric hooked his axe around a spear and pulled its owner in to slam his helmed head into their face, then impaled them on their own weapon. "Pick it up! We'll let no andals kill more than us!" He pulled his round shield off of his back and raised it high to fend off a volley. "Press forward! Let these freaks see the sons of Father Skagos! Let them wail in despair, for we have come to avenge the Feast of Skane!"

Over a hundred fighters pressed on into the dockyards, setting fires which sent up smoke, blocking the scorpion operators from targeting the _Trident_ and _Sea Dragon_. The Orcs assigned there were forced back by the relentless charge, losing many to being trampled as they raced to shore up by the base of the towers.

Baldric realized from a quick count of their numbers that Snow's plan had worked. The sudden loss of the gate had prompted those usually kept in reserve to race to reinforce the defence above. Less than half remained here, and even while retaining a slight edge in numbers they were disorganized and whittled down to seven or eight score.

Baldric rallies his men and had them form a solid shield wall. "Cut them down!" He led them in a charge that cut through the centre.

 _We're keeping our end, Snow._ Baldric cleaved a head down the middle. _Keep up yours, or this is for nothing._

Xxx

By the time they reached the bridge linking the two Baileys the rebel Orcs encountered more organized resistance. Jon cut down the last of another group to try and waylay them by striking from side passages and beheld a wall of long pikes and tall shields three Orcs thick barring the way to the square where the bridge was linked. The bodies of several cazarin riders and their mounts from the van lay in bloody piles before this entrenched company.

His first thought was to strike at them himself, but he had taken a few blows on his way to the front and was not willing to risk being dispatched when he'd invested everything in this assault. Next he pondered having Dûsh attack from above or outflank them, but saw him dancing with glee as his daggers flashed through many an Orc who had climbed up to meet him and his Carrion Blades on equal footing. Tarak's cavalry would be cut to pieces and the interlocked tower shields would minimize the effect of arrows or javelin.

"Hold!" Jon held his sword high. "Form up! Form ranks! Pikes to the front! Pikes up front!"

To his surprise, Grublik Four-Fingers held up a hand. "Please, m'lord." He looked over his shoulder and motioned with his head to someone unseen. "Let my sappers take care of it."

As the rebels finished forming ranks, three smaller Orcs slipped through and raced up the street, wearing not but loin cloths and barrels lashes to their upper bodies with copious amounts of rope. The trio laughed merrily as they raced into the wall of pikes, stopping only when they stood impaled on many blades.

 _What the hells was that meant to accomplish?!_

"Wait for it." Grublik said, as if reading his thoughts, and many of his bowmen lit their arrow heads before firing them in a single volley.

As the arrows sailed through the air, Jon saw panic among the entrenched defenders who began to break ranks and move back from the slain sappers. Before they got too far one arrow struck a sapper's barrel-

What happened next could only be described as a blinding flash accompanied by a crack of thunder, a wave of heat and a showering of rock and dust. One moment the three sappers and over a hundred other pikemen had been there and the next…the street was shattered, bearing a hole where it had been occupied and the pike wall was no more. Orcs groaning and shrieking in pain, bodies scorched black, discarded limbs and entrails and other signs of the defending Orcs were scattered across the now open path. Some few had been fortunate to be far enough that they were more or less unharmed, but three for every five pikemen had been killed or injured beyond the point of posing any threat.

"What the fuck?" Jon whispered.

"Fire powder." The Stranger said. "I'd heard legends of it, but never thought…"

"MOVE UP!" Takra barked, advancing with his riders. "Before they close it again!"

The rebels streamed forward and into the square. Jon joined them in clearing out any remaining resistance, claiming the second foothold.

"Such a show!" Dûsh clapped after climbing down to join them. "Truly a master of your art, dear Grublik."

"If you'd stopped playing with your food I wouldn't have needed to waste good sappers." Grublik scowled. "And don't call me 'dear'."

"It was well executed, Grublik." Jon said. "Remind me to talk with you about it later. Rally your men and prepare for the next push."

"Barhdgul!" Tarak pointed his spear to the bridge. "Incoming! Olog'hai!"

 _Olog-What?_

He heard what he'd gotten used to in the presence of giants while travelling with Mance Rayder. Foot steps made by things too large and heavy to be human, stomping across the bridge at a running pace towards them. When he looked to the source he saw a wave of figures taller and wider than any man but still shorter than the likes of Wun-Wun and his kin charging towards the rebel army.

And emblazoned upon their cuirasses was the crest of Hurok's Berserkers.

"Troll folk!" Grublik screeched. "They'll sweep us away like dust! We need to pull- guck!"

"Now you listen here, coward!" Dûsh hissed, holding the smaller captain up by the throat. "My Master is counting on us to see him to victory, and you won't get in the way of that! Stand and fight, or die!" He shoved Grublik away and charged towards the front lines where the massive warriors slammed hammers and maces down, sending clusters of rebel Orcs flying overhead and ignoring any attempts at using spears or arrows to force them back.

Jon forced his way towards the front and flung the Fist through the air, arching it over the Olog'hai. He closed his fist and found himself landing behind the line of armoured giants that slowly pushed his forces back. Taking hold of the hammer in both hands, Jon drove it into the back of one Olog's knee and heard something shatter under. The Olog howled and fell to one knee, dropping close enough for several Orcs to leap upon it and begin stabbing through any gap in its armour to be found. It still struggled and managed to fling a few off before Jon struck it in the centre of its back, internally bisecting it and killing it instantly.

One down, almost thirty to go. Jon's troops spilled through the gap, crawling over the slain Olog'hai to encircle the rest. Even then the battle was not in their favour, with maybe a third of the giants being felled in return for killing ten times as many.

"Bring them down!" Tarak Limp-Leg stabbed into one Olog's knee from behind. "Bring them down! Bring them down!"

Dûsh the Obsessed clung to the back of another Olog, reputedly driving his daggers into thick flesh until a hand enclosed around one of his forearms and ripped him off, holding him up for the Olog to glower at. Before it could bludgeon him with its mace Dûsh threw his second dagger and sank it right into his captor's eye. It roared and flung him away, clutching at the dagger only to accidentally push it in deeper.

Grublik Four-Fingers stayed back with a group of other ranged fighters, using their enemies' greater height to shoot clear over the rebels. They only served to distract or irritate the Olog'hai, but the Four-Fingers was still at least attempting to contribute.

But from side streets and back towards the gate came reinforcements who struck from the flanks. Jon's worst fear was beginning to come true: they were being penned in. Their best hope was to fight through the Olog'hai and move to the third stage of the assault.

Jon raised the Fist of the First Men towards the sky and began to call upon its elemental magic when a thick hand closed around his forearm and ripped him off of his feet. The one eyed Olog, still with Dûsh's dagger in its eye, snarled and flung Jon through the air. He slammed into a stone wall and his vision turned red as pain erupted from his skull-

Xxx

 _Two wolves wrestled in the depths of a forest. A boy snarled and lashed out with a spear. Hunters came and the wolves scattered into the darkness._

" _The plan goes well, I take it?"_

 _Jon opened his eyes and beheld the Wraith World, this time with a single landmark to serve as an anchor for him: the Ashcrown Heartree, an emerald tower piercing through the spectral mire. At its base sat a boy with Daemon's staff clutched in his arms._

" _You are not struck down." The boy assured him before being replaced by Daemon as Jon knew him. "Not yet. Think of this as the equivalent of falling unconscious."_

" _Why would you be here if that is the case?" Jon asked, finding that his head pulse with agony when he tried to rise._

" _You are connected to the Weirwood Web, the same as I." Daemon reminded him. "And I happened to be watching your progress. You're doing better than I thought, but it seems that you've run into- shit." His eyes widened. "Look out."_

Xxx

Jon was hauled up by a crushing grip around his neck. The one eyed Olog slammed him into the same wall as before and raised its mace to deliver a final blow.

"Oi, yah ugly shit!"

The Olog yelped and dropped Jon, Baldric Magnar's axe buried deep into its thigh. It sent one arm backhanded, narrowly missing the Skagosi who tugged his weapon free and chopped down on the instep of the same leg. It howled and tried to wrench itself away, but only succeeded in dragging the axe deeper through its foot until Baldric tugged it Free, allowing the one eyed Olog's own struggles to send it down onto its back. It pulled itself away as fast as it could, crawling and then limping off as Baldric helped Jon to his feet.

"That's one you owe me for, Snow!" Baldric told him.

"After it took you this long to get up here?" Jon asked, seeing the combined host of Westerosi joining the battle, emerging from a stairway located just off to the side of the bridge which wound down to the docks below. "We were ready to leave you behind."

"Someone didn't properly scout out the docks, so we had to deal with a few scorpions we didn't know about before." Baldric retorted. "Now would be a really good time to call in help."

 _Shit, how'd I miss that?_ Jon cringed at his mistake, but brushed it to the back of his mind. _Each mistake is a lesson, Snow. Start learning._

"Agreed." Jon held the Fist up once again, this time protected from any interruptions.

Channeling the magic within the hammer, Jon pulled the nearby clouds in to create a churning cauldron of vapour which slowly darkened and then flashed with lightning. Manipulating it like he would churn water, Jon made an opening within the freshly made nimbus and waited anxiously.

He didn't wait long. Far above Morgund'dur, the great winged shape of the Sheepstealer dropped through the safe corridor in the fledgling storm. Stretching its wings out to their full width, Sheep let loose a roar which caused the fighters to look up at the shadow that fell over them.

Levelling out of a steep dive, the Sheepstealer let loose a great stream of fire. The first cluster of Orcs to be hit were incinerated before they could scream, those near enough to be set alight wailed and writhed as they tried to put themselves out. This carried on for several hundred feet, immolating the path back to the gate and setting fire to structures to both sides. Sheep pulled up and came around for a second pass, obliterating any spot occupied by orc archers.

Atop the winged personification of fire and destruction, Rhae was every bit the appearance of the Valyrian dragonlords of yore. Face masked, Dark Sister in hand and illuminated in the glare of the inferno she had unleashed upon Morgund'dur, she seemed like Viserys Targaryen reborn in Jon's eyes. Pointing the ancestral Targaryen weapon, she guided the Sheepstealer down to target another column of loyalist Orcs, always striking far enough from where both sides were interlocked that none of Jon's troops were caught even at the edge of the desolation, leaving those too close to safely target to be trapped between a wall of blades and another of fire.

It was a scene taken from the pages of history, yet not even the inhuman nature of the dragon's victims could make it any less horrific. The odour of charred flesh and bone grew heavy as pillars of smoke rose to enshroud Morgund'dur's Outer Bailey, the howls of the dying formed a cacophony that Jon would carry with him.

He faulted Rhae and Sheep not, aware of the necessity of victory at any cost this day, but this served to remind him of the destructive potential of even one aging dragon. If

"Cross the bridge!" Jon shouted as rain began to pelt down on the square. "Leave the rest to the dragon! Cross the bridge!"

Tarak Limp-Leg organized his remaining riders and led the charge across. The loyalist Orcs manning the battlements brought their siege weapons to bare on the dragon as it came around for another strafing run. Many bolts were loosed, but Sheep dipped down under the volley and passed under the bridge, which still bore signs of the damage that Jon had done to it days ago. Before the Orcs upon the ramparts could reload and reorient to track their target they were engulfed in a second wave of fire as Sheep burnt the siege weapons and their crews away in a single pass.

Jon reached the gate house and quickly ascended to find its garrison abandoning their posts. Perfectly happy to let them flee, he single handedly began to raise the portcullis, allowing Tarak safe entry to the Inner Bailey, followed soon by the rest of the attacking army.

Once they were through he let the portcullis fall, cutting off the loyalist Orcs still in the Outer Bailey. Jon looked gazed down at the survivors and cursed as he saw just how effective the Olog'hai and accompanying flanking attacks had been, cutting down his Orcs by almost a third of their original strength before Sheepstealer had been called in.

Jumping down into the fray, Jon helped to clear the square while Sheepstealer made several more passes, setting fire to entire buildings and streets, creating road blocks by demolishing some structures with a swing of its tail. This was not a senseless rampage, but carefully planned moves which left the attacking army penned in, only this time under favourable circumstance. The bridge and gate guarded their backs, stretches of burning and demolished wreckage covering their flanks and only two parallel streets for the enemy to attack from, effectively funnelling them into a bottleneck that nullified any numerical advantage.

"We hold here!" Jon shouted. "Work on blocking the side roads! Let them come to us from the front! Watch for anywhere that the fire begins to die!"

With their position secured for the moment, Jon returned to the square where Baldric and Ser Narbert were setting the Skani Rangers atop the rampart to act as rear guard, focusing on the gate house where the Sheepstealer's flames had not reached when clearing the siege weapons. Any companies stranded in the Outer Bailey were left to face a gauntlet of Weirwood arrows capable of punching through armour even when fired from one end of the bridge to the next, keeping them from even establishing a foothold where Jon's army had been trapped minutes ago.

"The plan is working, Lord Snow!" Ser Narbert, his sword dripping with orc blood, actually looked pleased to see him for once. "The Berserkers were out in force to hold this wall." He delivered a kick to one body bearing Hurok's crest. "And were entirely unprepared for your dragon."

"Then Lobra's men must have struck by now." Jon didn't bother to correct the knight. "I need to find him."

"He'll probably be with that source you blathered on about." Baldric sat down and planted the head of his axe between his feet, leaning on it. "Where's that again?"

"The Pit." Tarak Limp-Leg informed him, being helped out of the saddle of his injured mount. "That is where Hurok maintains his vigil."

"And the Pit is…where?" Baldric motioned expectantly.

"Below." Jon tapped his sword to the ground twice. "Now we've come to the hard part: I need to find the nearest tunnel entrance."

Standing with his spear as a walking stick to support his lame leg, Tarak looked towards the sealed gate. "Overlooking the sea, opposite shore from the dockyards. There's a spot for keep watch to the western waters, set high in the cliff face. Can't reach it by ground, only through the catacombs."

Rhae brought the Sheepstealer down into the middle of the square, demolishing a statue of Tar-Medina under the dragon's bulk.

"At least," Tarak amended, "that's how it usually is."

This made for a perfect point of entry. Why place too many guards at a door that nobody can possibly reach? Even with Sheep's arrival they might not consider it worth putting too many fighters near.

"That's my way in then." Jon decided. "Baldric, Ser Narbert, can you hold the line here for a while longer?"

"With a dragon settin' half the fortress on fire, Orcs to every side and outnumberin' us so bad it isn't funny?" Baldric climbed to his feet and hefted his axe to lean on his shoulder. "Eh, beats goin' back to killin' wildlings. 'Least these Orcs are a challenge."

"We shall hold." Ser Narbert vowed.

Jon met Rhae halfway. "I need you to fly me somewhere."

"First I cook you dinner, now it's a ride you want." Rhae sighed. "Alright, come along. But after this you put a good word in for me with that Magnar fellow. I've seen him swing an axe, and I can't think of a better way to celebrate victory than some 'good will' with our old neighbours."

"I'm afraid he's married." Jon informed her while hurrying over to Sheep.

She turned and followed him with a puzzled expression. "So?"

Xxx

The vantage point was where Tarak had described. Far above a rocky shore too rough for anyone to hope to safely reach by water, yet below the ledge of the island occupied by the Inner Bailey, was a crevice not unlike the maw of some great beast leading right into the area below the fortress.

The Sheepstealer's size made flying too close to be dangerous, forcing Jon to make his own way. After falling short while leaping from the dragon's back he made up for the distance by lobbing the Fist into the opening. When he warped to it the hammer's momentum carried him face first through a rock spire jutting out of the floor.

The first thing to go through his mind was a blinding explosion of pain.

The second, after he'd finished clutching his face and cursing, was whether the rock he had just turned to dust with one swing of his arm had been a stalagmite or stalactite.

"Are you quite done?" The Stranger, appearing less than impressed by Jon's outburst, stood at the mouth of a tunnel leading deeper in. "Come. These tunnels wreak of death, so tread softly."

"This entire island wreaks of death." Jon whispered, debating between his sword or hammer when he remembered a third option: Longclaw, or what remained of it, was about the right size for a dagger and would be easier to use in the closed confines of the tunnels.

He crept into the passages to find the bodies of Berserkers and Black Riders alike scattered through the adjacent chambers. When the time had come the Black Riders had been quick to target Olog'hai and heavy infantry, filling them with pikes and driving daggers into their joints and throats. But the element of surprise hadn't stopped the Berserkers from reaping a toll on their former allies, demonstrating the skill needed to serve under a War Chief by bleeding the Riders just as heavily in the ensuing bloodbath.

Jon recited under his breath what Lobra had told him the night before the assault: the Pit lay directly beneath the keep itself, which was to the north-east of where he'd landed. There was no way to determine north from south where he stood, but the catacombs under the Inner Bailey had been originally built outward from the Pit. Thus, Jon knew he was getting close when the loosely shaped tunnels and wooden support beams and buttresses were replaced by sturdier carved stone.

No more than several minutes must have passed, but the foreboding silence and excess of bodies choking the passages made it feel like he'd spent hours combing the tunnels. At several points he encountered signs of the dead having been feasted upon, but not by any cazarin who would devour a kill whole. These bodies had been dragged away and partly eaten in a corner or side passage, then left to rot.

The air around him was musty and laced with smoke from where some of the fallen had been set alight, some of them before they'd died as evidenced by the twisted, agonized positions of their blackened remains. Jon fought hard against the instinct to breathe in the presence of so much death and decay, pushing deeper into the depths until he came upon a chamber which could not be mistaken for any other.

The Pit had been aptly named, for it was a great shaft which stretched upwards towards what must have been the interior of the great keep. A stairway carved into the walls spiralled down to what was only the highest of several landings, the lowest of which lay at the very heart of the floor. The same signs of battle that Jon had waded through to get here were strewn about, with most of the fallen baring the Black Riders' sigil.

Beneath the blood and grime, symbols carved into the stone floor emitted a golden glow which illuminated better than any number of torches could, forming many lines which stretched out from the epicentre towards a circle of similar text bund within two thick lines which almost touched the walls. At equal points along the circumference of this array were seven circles through which the light was fed.

As he descended, Jon saw this pattern repeat upon each landing: one ring after another. The second level was marked with five circles to join the complex weave of glyphs together, then the third by three. And finally, as he came to the lowest point in all of Morgund'dur Jon beheld the greatest treasure of Tar-Medine where it lay upon an altar carved of black stone to better resemble a clawed hand grasping upwards, holding the prize in its palm.

"A ring." Jon breathed.

It was a loop of pale Weirwood stained red within the recesses of shapes carved into the exterior surface, not unlike what Jon had tread over moments before. Despite how thin and fragile it appeared to him, Jon was not able to convince himself of this when beholding the power that radiated from it like great waves of pressure that pushed against him the closer he drew to it. Jon could hear something, distant whispers only just within his perception that came from the ring itself, calling to him…

"The Weaver did not jest." The Stranger appeared across from Jon. "This is no mere trinket, nor even a fledgling blood mage's concoction. I had thought that Tar-Medina had crafted it as a conduit for drawing power from the world itself, but this…what you feel now is entirely its own power. All of this light comes from the ring, drawn into the fortress and to Tar-Medine."

"How can something so small grant such strength?" Jon reached out towards it, unable to look away.

"It matters not. We can determine its origin after its master is disposed of." The Stranger declared. "Take hold of it and we will see to him."

Yes…take up the enemy's own weapon against him. Let him quiver in terror as his power was sapped away along with his most precious of-

Something struck Jon from the side. It did not wound or even cause much pain, but it staggered him and tore his attention away to the upper level of the chamber. A form too large to be that of any man stood there, burnished in black armour from head to toe and carrying in one hand a warhammer that would have made Robert Baratheon envious. Jon could see nought beyond the visor of their helmet, save for two piercing orbs of red that bored into him.

"Not once has any come so far." Their voice possessed the same rough texture that Jon had come to attribute to the speech patterns of Orcs, only this one spoke with such a measured and controlled tone, lacking the usual underlying animalistic growl that Orcs deliberately added to almost everything they said. "Yet the Lord of Skane did warn that you were no ordinary man."

Each step the Olog (for that was all Jon could imagine being under the thick armour) took was like a hammer strike. "But your journey has come to an end, Gravewalker." It shifted the warhammer to wield it with both hands, as easily as Jon might a sword. "As has that of your spy."

At Jon's feet lay the head of Lobra the Wolf, misshapen in a twisted expression of agony with a length of spinal cord still attached.

"The ring!" The Stranger shouted. "Grab it!"

Jon lunged towards the altar but was struck again, this time in the chest and with such force that he was flung to the upper tier of the room, crashing against solid stone which fractured beneath him. Paralyzed by agony, it took all of his strength to turn over onto his front and push himself up. His arms trembled with effort, finding the challenge of lifting himself off of the floor to be of greater strain than he could ever remember.

"Weak and undisciplined." The armoured Olog now stood by the altar, wreathed in tendrils of smoke that coiled like serpents around its form. "Your power is not but an aberration, a fluke, a mistake. Mine on the other hand has purpose, focus and the experience of a thousand years."

Jon managed to climb back to his feet, slowly feeling strength trickle into his limbs again as the Olog ascended the stairs towards him. "Now you meet your end by the hands of Hurok the Undying."

"He toys with us." The Stranger said, appearing by Jon's side. "Whatever powers his master may have granted to him or trained him in, he too is strengthened by the ring. Take it and he will be nothing!"

"Easier…" Jon gasped, drawing his sword. "Said…than done."

"We shall we." Hurok replied dryly, and cleared the last several steps in a leap before bringing his hammer down with inhuman might.

Xxx

(1) If it wasn't obvious, this is a spoof of a lesson by Colonel Hunter Gathers from the Venture Brothers: "Lesson One: Trust no one! The minute that God crapped out the third caveman a conspiracy was hatched against one of them!"

 _ **Captain Profiles**_

 **Name and Title: Dûsh the Obsessed**

Tribe: Dark, a tribe which specializes in ambushes and deception.

Class: Savage, wields two swords and can launch a whirlwind attack to break an enemy's defence.

Advanced Class: Assassin (Stealth enemy that prefers to take enemies out quick. Often douses weapon with poison)

Agile: Will dodge attacks by rolling or vaulting over opponents.

No Chance: Enemies will not have any chance to defend themselves from a final blow.

Throwing Knives: Dûsh will throw knives

Strengths:

Gang of Warriors (Always accompanied by a group of warriors)

Dark Weaponry (Can equip and dual wield curved daggers)

Enraged by cowards (Will grow enraged if he witnesses another Captain become dazed or flee)

Enraged by fire (Will grow enraged if burnt by fire)

Weaknesses:

Dazed by headshots

Dazed by ?

Made by: ManwithaPlan113

 **Name: Grublik Four-Fingers**

Tribe: Machine, an industrious tribe where every Orc sees themselves as a single cog in a greater machine.

Class: Hunter, wields spears and javelins which they can throw to devastating effect at a cost of higher durability in melee combat.

Advanced Class: Destroyer (An expert in explosive tactics and weaponry. The Destroyer is always equipped with bombs and mines.)

Final Blast (upon his death, triggers an explosion that stuns nearby enemies)

Sappers (Can summon a pack of Sappers, Orcs who have been treated with drugs that have rotted their minds and removed any sense of self preservation. They carry satchels of explosive powder and a torch which they use to turn themselves into living bombs, destroying enemy fortifications if they can get close enough.)

Strengths:

Fire-Proof (Will not take damage from being burnt)

Weaknesses:

Clumsy (Can be grabbed or mounted without being weakened first)

Lack of Dexterity (Has lost three fingers on each hand, hence his title)

Not a frontline fighter

 **Name and Title: Takra Limp-Leg**

Tribe: Marauder, a tribe which sees battle as merely a prelude to their true specialty: sacking and plundering.

Class: Defender, wields a spear and shield which grant him heightened defence and allow him to unleash a charge attack which can only be dodged.

Advanced Class: Beastmaster (As one with the creatures of the wilds. Beasts will not attack him.)

Bestial Roar (Utters a beastly roar that calls Cazarin into battle, heals allied beasts and compels them to attack his target.)

Cazarin Tamer (Can easily time wild or hostile Cazarin)

Strengths:

Cazarin Rider (Is able to mount Cazarin and usually rides one into battle)

Vigilant against Stealth (Cannot be hit by a stealth melee attack)

Blood Brother (Loyal Blood Brother to ?)

Enraged by Cowards (Enraged when witnessing higher ranked Orcs become dazed or flee)

Weaknesses:

Injury (One of his legs were badly twisted many years ago, leaving him with a permanent limp and making him much weaker when fighting on foot, nullifying his Vigilant against Stealth perk)

Vulnerable to Ranged (Takes increased damage from ranged attacks)

Fear of Poison (Becomes dazed when poisoned)


	22. Chapter 21: battle of Morgund'dur-Part 2

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

 **A/N: Man, this one took a long time. I kept going back through it to edit one thing or another, including removing any mention of Asha Greyjoy's preferences, as I'd forgotten that while her TV portrayal (Yara Greyjoy) might be bisexual, word of god (as the big brilliant bearded bastard himself) has it that Asha is not. This is what happens when I mix book and show elements, I suppose.**

Xxx

 **Chapter Twenty-One: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part Two: The Undying**

 **12** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Winterfell, the North**

The prolonged inaction had the detrimental effect of Ramsay visiting her bed more often. Before when he had been out rallying those houses that would heed the Boltons' call or conducting patrols and skirmish raids on the lands of those who sides with Stannis she might have more than one blessed night to herself. But the Baratheon forces had shored up their southernmost keeps and refused to meet his skirmishers on equal footing, only giving battle where they could be guaranteed an advantage. This led to Roose Bolton calling an end to the practice in futility and having Ramsay focus more on preparing the defences…and seeing to his marital vows.

Every time she awoke he was gone and Theon was preparing a bath for her, helping to ease her bruised skin and aching bones before her day began. He would wash her hair in silence if nothing managed to disturb them until she felt ready, after which he fetched clothing and helped her to dress herself- taking care not to agitate her growing collection of aches and pains. Then she would begin her day of being a hostage in all but name anew, with little to break the cycle of mundane activities designed to keep her distracted from the growing tension.

But she heard things, silently moving through the castle like a ghost each day.

Torrhen Whitehill, in grief from the deaths of all in his family- save his apparently traitorous sister Gwyn and aspiring-maester brother Ebbert, was urged by his bannermen to ride north and retake Highpoint. His refusal sewed the seeds of resentment among his few hundred men. To add to his woes, with both the loss of his home and the lands surrounding Ironrath his obligation to provide ironwood for the Crown was in jeopardy. Despite all of this he still preached of keeping ties with the Boltons, if only because nobody else would support them, but no man took kindly to their homes and families being in enemy hands.

Lady Barbrey Dustin played at being a loyal- if not abrasive follower but her men whispered of her hatred for Ramsay, something to do with his half-brother's death before the war. She had refused to allow his wedding to Sansa to happen in Barrowton, going as far as to promise to take his head if he ever set foot in Barrow Hall. Anyone else would have lost their head, but her kinship to both Roose Bolton and House Ryswell as well as House Bolton's already short list of allies kept her safe.

The Ryswells were only in the Bolton camp because Roose had been married to Bethany Ryswell, but they and Barbrey were contemptuous of his allies in House Frey and wary of something else she'd not been permitted to hear. Despite contributing only marginal amounts of their forces to the war, they had still lost kin and some good men at the Red Wedding where there had been little discrimination on the part of the instigators. Only promises of increased lands, incomes and advantageous betrothals had kept them in the fold so far.

Arnolf Karstark's eldest son was dead and his seat was in the hands of Wildlings sworn to Stannis, one of their chiefs wed to Alys Karstark and those who remain easily bending the knee to her. The former Castellan been seen as an usurper by many for acting as he had, claiming the seat while rumour travelled of Harrison Karstark still drawing breath in the south, a captive of the Crown. He'd initially tried to declare for Stannis, which would have sealed his great nephew's fate if he still lived, but abandoned the ruse when it became clear it would not work. A number of his bannermen detested him, but hated the idea of Wildlings and flame worshipping fanatics more.

Her captors' alliance was built on a foundation of sand, yet for all that she had learned Sansa could not begin to act on this. Plans aplenty swam in her head, but for each idea she imagined a hundred ways it could go wrong and end with worse punishment than what she already endured. The idea of her own execution was not given serious consideration, but her husband's family had already demonstrated excessive creativity in inflicting pain by the condition of Theon.

If they could break the proud future Lord of the Iron Islands, what hope would she have to resist? And if broken, how could she hope to rejoin her pack?

And so she waited, watched and listened for an opportunity.

Once washed and dressed, Sansa gathered herself in her cloak and walked with Theon on the battlements where she saw a procession of riders approach from the eastern gate. The horses wore barding matched to the banners fluttering atop spears, and a number of the men were clad in armour too expensive for any man-at-arms to afford.

 _Knights, but not Freys._ She peered at the symbols upon each banner and struggled to remember most, but the few she recalled were enough for her to make an educated guess. _From White Harbour? Has House Manderly taken a side?_

She'd heard that some bannermen of White Harbour were hosted at the Dreadfort.

Leading them was a knight in dark armour and a purple cloak. Upon dismounting in the courtyard where the mounts were handed over to stable hands he removed his helmet, showing a handsome and clean shaven face with a head of dark hair and violet eyes.

 _Valyrian?_ Sansa dismissed the thought, recalling how the Daynes of Starfall were said to have similar eyes.

"Ser Marcus." Ramsay put on his false smile and greeted him as instructed by his father. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

"But not my half-sister in chains, it seems." The knight replied. "Your man in Hornwood, the Skinner, is dead. He and his men were slaughtered to the last and the bitch was sighted in the company of sellswords and mountain born savages, heading north."

"My father feared as much." Ramsay's smile faltered. "But he bade me to assure you that anything that your sister-"

"Half-sister." Marcus cut him off.

Ramsay's stance grew stiff, his hands clasped behind him balling into fists. "-that your _half-sister_ shares with the usurper will change nothing." He finished.

"Except for the possession of my family's blade." Ser Marcus corrected him as a man in Bolton colours, a rattling mail shirt and great steel greaves upon long legs dismounted. "Does your father intend to sit here while Stannis takes his time conquering the North?"

"He awaits you even now to erase your fears." Ramsay's pale eyes turned up to stare at Sansa. "In the Great Hall, where we will _all_ receive you."

Ser Marcus follow Ramsay's gaze as Sansa descended to the court yard and approached. "Red of hair, blue eyes…" he bowed his head and kissed Sansa's hand. "Lady Bolton, a pleasure."

"Ser Marcus," Sansa hollowly echoed the same greeting she'd made to many a knight and lord, "I am honoured to welcome you to Winterfell."

"We need to move this along." The dour looking Bolton man-at-arms insisted. "We bring word for your father."

"For you to have carried it yourself and abandoned your post at the Dreadfort, I hope it is important." Ramsay took Sansa's arm. "Reek, wait outside."

Theon complied, squatting outside of the great hall where Roose Bolton and his war council were gathered to receive the new arrival.

"Lord Bolton," Ser Marcus wasted no time bending the knee, "I bring good and ill tidings."

"If the latter is that your sister has successfully made her way to Stannis Baratheon's hands, you needn't concern yourself with it." Roose cut through any niceties. "Nothing she says will affect the outcome of this war."

"So I've been told." Ser Marcus stood. "Lord Manderly has emptied the lands of Houses Bell, Rook, Emon and a dozen others of fighting men and ordered them all to the Dreadfort. The rest of the Merman's forces gather at White Harbour where the gates have opened to the smallfolk."

"The Walrus Lord expects war to come to his lands." Barbrey Dustin commented.

"If he was smart he'd turn them away." Torrhen Whitehill scoffed as his cup was filled. "More mouths to feed in a siege."

"Assuming that it comes to that," Rodrik Ryswell glanced sideways at Roose, "the city is well supplied."

"And now he's gathering every bannerman he trusts to rally in White Harbour." The Leech Lord stated. "Good."

To say that Sansa was not well versed in the are of warfare would be an understatement. She had no grasp of it whatsoever, but politics and war were like two hands on the same body and worked well together. Lord Manderly was answering the Boltons' call to send aid against Stannis, but only by sending away those in service to houses who (if Ser Marcus was any indicator) were not trustworthy. By doing so he could appear to be obeying his liegelord, yet in truth he was removing a dagger poised at his back that might compromise White Harbour's defence in the event of a siege.

Then why was Roose so expectant of this? He even, she daresay, sounded as if he'd been hoping for this outcome.

"Once the dust has settled, I will see to it that White Harbour is in good enough condition to resume commerce," Roose gave Ser Marcus a cold, nefarious smile that his son had clearly inherited, "under the watchful eye of the new, very loyal Warden of the White Knife."

There it was! The price of loyalty in the North: lordship of its largest city and port of trade. And with any who were likely to side with the Boltons gathered away from the city, the line between friend and foe had been drawn.

"And we shall gladly hold it in your name for all time." Ser Marcus smirked, only briefly. "But first, instead of repeating the same placation your son gave me, you could tell me what we are to do now that Stannis knows of the plan."

Roose looked straight at Sansa, who sucked in a breath and held still. Something about him, about his eyes, seemed different. He was never a pleasant man to be around at normal occasion, but now Sansa felt…like she was a little bird being eyed by a dragon.

"Daughter," his use of the word made her stomach churn, "there is no reason for you to trouble yourself with this. Go."

Sansa slid her chair back, bade farewell to her husband and collected Then where he was still seated outside.

He had known. She couldn't guess how, but he had to have known that she was paying careful attention to everything said in there. Did he suspect that she was waiting for something she could use?

She made for the one place in Winterfell where her fears melted away: the Godswood. Two guards standing at the entrance acknowledged her request not to be disturbed unless her husband or lord-father chose to enter. Neither had bothered to stand before the gods after her wedding, she doubted that would change today.

Kneeling before the Heartree again, Sansa began to speak again, pouring her heart out to it. "I'm…I'm afraid that-"

 _Silence…_

Ice water shot through Sansa's body. The tree, its mouth…had that been wind passing through the hollow recesses, or had it just spoken like in the old legends?

 _Danger…_ The whisper brushed across the branches of every tree around her, rustling them and turning one lone voice into many overlapping, repeating themselves.

"Enjoying yourself, Lady Sansa?"

Theon scrambled to Sansa's side, his eyes wide with panic and his face even paler than usual as he looked behind her. Sansa slowly turned her head to see Myranda, Ramsay's mistress and daughter of the Dreadfort's kennelmaster, standing by the edge of the clearing, bow in hand and arrow nocked, smiling.

"You come out here a lot." She said, motioning to the Heatree while moving around to one side of her. "I thought that you were looking for a way to escape, some secret tunnel the Starks know about. But you just come out here, day after day, and sit in the snow in front of a tree. I'm disappointed."

Sansa climbed to her feet, heedless of how the girl shifted the arrowhead in her direction again. "I explicitly told the guards I wasn't to be disturbed."

"Unless Ramsay or his father came calling, yes." Myranda agreed. "But there's more than one way in here. I'm surprised you wouldn't know, but then again…perfect little girls don't go wandering secret passages, do they? That's fine with me. It gives us time to talk."

Sansa felt Theon shift behind her, cowering. "Then speak."

"You have them fooled, but not me." Myranda shook her head. "You play the part, you keep silent and submissive like a good noble wife, but you're a terrible mummer. The men are fooled because they want to believe you're a broken, submissive little bitch. I'm not so easily convinced."

She came to a stop to Sansa's right. "You've only one use to Ramsay: birthing him a son or two, then he won't need you anymore. But he's fucked you every week for months now and still no baby. I wonder why. Perhaps the Maester has been slipping you something to help with that."

He hadn't, but Sansa knew how evidence could be forged. Was this girl planning to make her appear to be taking moon tea? If she convinced Ramsay or his father…the things that would be done to her made her shudder to even consider.

"He'll grow bored of you eventually, one way or another." Myranda lowered her bow. "He needs you, or at least some parts of you now because your father was Warden of the North, because the North will only accept someone with Stark blood in Winterfell. But that'll change soon, and if he finds you've been a bad little wife you won't like what he'll do. So if I were you, I'd get heavy with child as quick I could and make him nice and happy."

 _Violet…_

 _Kyra…_

 _Giselle…_

 _Lorelei…_

 _Denise…_

These five names, again and again, echoed across the grove. Myranda seemed to take no notice of this.

 _Grow bored…_

 _Run them down…_

 _Feed the Girls…_

 _Bastard's Girls…_

"…will he do the same thing he did to Violet?"

Myranda's smile fell away. "…what?"

"Or Kyra?" Sansa pressed. "Giselle? Lorelei? Denise? Did he feed them to those hounds of his? His Girls? Did he bed them too? Did he run them down in the forest after they stopped amusing him?"

With a rush of confidence from gods knew where, Sansa slowly moved closer to the girl. "Will he do that to you, too? When he gets bored of you and moves on?"

"He won't." Myranda's hands shook. "He won't do that. Not to me."

"Did they think the same?" Sansa smiled, and now knew why it had been so easy for Cersei to wear a kind look over such a dark heart.

Because, deep down, it felt so good to see someone she hated look at her with such confusion…such fear…

"He loves me. I'm not like those other girls." Sansa feigned simpering. "I'm not like any of them. He'll never take another after me. He _loves_ me."

She was within arm's reach now. "Do you know what makes me sick? That at one point…I was as blind as you."

 _Blind. Stupid. Naïve. Lovesick._

"Shut up!" Myranda raised the bow and made to step back, reflexively putting distance between them.

Sansa hadn't intended for what happened next. She didn't really know what she'd wanted, provoking Myranda the way she had. Maybe some small part of her had just wanted to die.

Long after this moment she would wonder if she'd have done anything to avert it if given the chance…

More often than not, she would decide that there was nothing about this that she would ever seek to change.

Myranda's ankle bumped against a root of the Heartree poking through the snow. The bow dropped from her hand as she tried to turn, seeking ground to brace her hands against, but instead she splashed headfirst into the pool, silencing her before she could get off more than a yelp. Myranda vanished beneath the surface, only visible by her pale skin as she thrashed, trying to climb back towards the surface…

But she couldn't swim.

Sansa watched from the ledge as Theon made to scramble past her, ready to dive in. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"No!" He tried to wrench away.

"Theon-"

"No! No Theon!" He wailed, and tried to push her away. "Reek! Only Reek! Rhymes with freak!"

"Theon Greyjoy!" Sansa wrapped her arms around his frame, so much thinner and weaker than what she remembered of her father's ward. "It's over."

"Lord Ramsay! He'll be mad!" He wept, still struggling to save Myranda.

"He'll never know." Sansa whispered. "She helped him hurt you, didn't she? He'll never know what happened to her. Never. Nobody knows she came here. Nobody will ever find her down there."

Slowly, Theon's struggles subsided as he slumped into Sansa's arms. Myranda's face faded from view, then her grasping hands went next, leaving only slight disturbances and bubbles on the otherwise mirror-like surface from her movements. And then those were gone too.

 _Blood and water._ The Godswood whispered to her. _Blood and water for the gods._

"She's dead now." Sansa said, brushing a hand through his stringy, greasy hair. "There's no use in telling him. He'll only hurt you more, but I won't." She spoke soothingly. "I won't hurt you, Theon. Never. So let this be our little secret."

After he'd calmed enough to be silent, Sansa collected the fallen bow and a number of arrows that had fallen in the snow. Some drifted in the pool, but in time they too would sink with the heavy heads that Myranda had on them. She still grabbed as many as she could without falling in herself and bundled them together.

 _Here…below…blood and water for the gods…_

Sansa followed the breath of wind to the base of the Heartree where she sighted an opening. Crouching down and leaning forward, she reached in to see how large it was before her hand brushed against a handle. Pulling on it, she produced a handle made of pale weirwood with a length of rock sticking out of it, shaped almost like a chisel…

Regardless of who had put it there or why, she returned it and added the bow and scavenged arrows to the hiding spot and piled snow over the entrance until it could not be seen and then returned to Theon's side. She pulled him to his feet and supported him.

"Let's go back now, Theon." She said, feeling stronger in that moment than she ever had as precious, perfect Lady Sansa had ever been. "My lord husband will become worried if we stay too long."

Xxx

 **The Pit, Morgund'dur, Skane**

This was not going according to plan anymore. Not that Jon had much of a plan to begin with.

Oh sure, everything fell together nicely. Dûsh had proven himself a formidable infiltrator, Four-Fingers and Limp-Leg had been competent enough commanders to more personally direct their forces and follow the broad strokes. The grand deception to insert the Black Riders into Pit duty had worked without any suspicion. In turn he'd provided some badly needed brute force to help break through the Olog'Hai at the bridge.

But that had all been four-fifths luck, and it seemed his luck had run out.

The hammer of Hurok the Undying demolished anything in its path. His sword had proven less than useful when the War Chief twisted the shaft of his weapon to trap Jon's blade and then shattered between his tree trunk thick arms. Jon had been lucky to get out of reach before his head could be flattened next.

"This isn't working." He gasped after racing to take shelter halfway across the chamber, ducked next a staircase between the upper and middle tiers.

"I hadn't noticed." The Bright Stranger drawled, appearing upright in the open. "He is as resilient as he is relentless. Fighting him blow for blow will end badly."

"What should I do?"

"He leaves himself open during attacks and relies on his armour to protect him." The Stranger quickly advised. "And when at a distance he utilizes that dark magic to quickly reach you. Get in close, force him to engage you directly. Use the Fist's elemental abilities to unbalance him if need be. Rely on agility over strength."

 _Agility. Close up. Hammer._

Peeking out into the open, Jon saw a dissolving cloud of smoke where Hurok had been searching for him.

 _Fuck!_

Jon rolled to one side before the Undying erupted into view, emerging from a nimbus of dark magic. His hammer shattered part of the steps into dust, and was brought back up with no difficulty for a wide swing which Jon ducked under. In compliance with the Stranger's advice he fought the urge to move out of reach of the warhammer and lunged forward, sliding between the Olog's feet. Jon twisted around and surged up, sinking the dagger sized Longclaw into Hurok's lower back, under his armour

A crushing hand closed around Jon's shoulder and ripped him away, flinging him away. Hurok rested a hand over the new wound and held it up with fresh black blood staining his hand. "Like a flea biting a lion."

Jon saw the gathering black miasma. He seized the Fist of the First Men and lurched forward as if to attack, but tossed the Fist over head in an underhanded toss, waiting for the right moment when the armoured giant reappeared. Jon warped himself to the Fist, leaving nought but thin air for Hurok to crush while he reappeared overhead, following the Fist's descent. He gripped the smaller hammer in both hands and brought it down with as much power as he could muster.

He felt it strike and heard metal crunch. Hurok groaned and doubled over, his helmet clattering to the floor in several pieces. Jon did not relent, feeling the Stranger's will pair with his own.

 _Do as I do, Jon Snow._

Jon did not simply strike. He unleashed a barrage of cuts and stabs as the Olog, vulnerable in his disorientation, raised one and then both arms to shield his exposed head.

Once. Thrice. Ten times. Fifteen!

Jon's arm moved of its own accord, so fast it became a blur. With each successful hit, spectral energy formed into a silhouette of the Bright Stranger which faded from sight as quickly as it formed. Longclaw became so heavy with orc blood that each swing began to send droplets flying to splatter a ways away.

Then Hurok's hand closed over Jon's forearm in a bone shattering grip. Jon swung his free arm up and felt the Fist strike before he was swung off of his feet. His vision flashed red as his skull cracked against the floor-or maybe it was the floor that cracked first? The Olog was howling, thrashing him about like a bag of flour. Jon lost hold of the Fist after the second impact, then Hurok lost hold of him following the third.

Tumbling down the lowest flight of steps, Jon's vision swam as he struggled to muster the strength to move. When he did he heard a high pitched whine of pain. In the haze of his disorientation he thought he'd heard Ghost and looked up in a fright.

Mugs, recognizable by the burn marks on one side of its head, was held up by one large hand, maw dark with freshly drawn orc blood. One side of Hurok's thick neck was torn and bleeding heavily, evidence of the cazarin's intervention.

"Should've stayed away." The War Chief hissed as Jon heard something snap under his grip. "Join your master in _death_ now."

Mugs fell limp and its bowels opened as Hurok dropped it. The body rolled down the stairs and stopped close to where Lobra the Wolf's head had been left, settling next to its master in death even after failing to avenge him.

Jon felt a pang of sympathy for the dead beast. Lobra had cared dearly for it, as much as an Orc could, and the feeling had to have been mutual. He couldn't guess how it had survived up to this point, but it had perhaps saved him. In some ways, it really did remind him of the Direwolves that had guarded his siblings before everything fell apart.

"That was a mistake." He growled.

Hurok's head, misshapen and with a metal plate bolted to one side of it, turned to sneer down at Jon. Taking up his warhammer, the Olog gathered the dark miasma around himself again.

Jon didn't know until that moment that he was capable of it, but instead of him travelling to wherever the Fist of the First Men had dropped, he felt its weight settle in his hand. Bringing it down, he caused the stones before him to crumble, spreading this effect up like water racing up onto a sandy beach. Before Hurok could finish casting his spell he lost his balance and stumbled. Jon raised his arm back up, reared back, and flung the Fist straight at the war chief. It impacted against Hurok's chest, caving in his cuirass and flinging him back, out of sight beyond the uppermost ledge of the depression.

When the Bright Strange appeared again, his perpetually dour countenance held what Jon took for an ounce of pride. "Well done." He said flatly. "You are learning to master the Fist's magic quickly."

"I have a good teacher." Jon replied, hanging the Fist on his belt.

"It was no lesson of mine that showed you how to do that." The Stranger denied. "Magic can be directed by focused will and discipline…or by intense emotion. Anger. You mourn for that Orc and his pet."

"On some level…" Jon admitted. "…but out of nostalgia, nothing more."

"Good." The Stranger looked past Jon. "Your prize awaits."

Yes, the ring.

Jon had almost forgotten it.

This time when he reached out for it he was held back by no hesitation.

"SNOW! STOP!"

If he'd known what would happen next, he'd wished he had hesitated again.

Xxx

 **Morgund'dur, Surface**

Sheep cut another line through the Inner Bailey, incinerating another cluster of Orcs trying to flank the rebels and westerosi troops.

Rhae let loose with a cry. "ASHCROWN!"

Even if nobody ended up hearing it, it did wonders for her.

The defence had done surprisingly well, but it had been planned with the help of Orcs who knew the layout of the fortress intimately. There'd been no hope of any forces from the Outer Bailey even reaching the far side of the bridge, and only one attempt had been made before their Captains had thought wisely against further effort. Most of the trouble came from the front, as expected, where Takra's cavalry were rendered ineffective by the narrow fighting space and thus were brought to the back to recuperate. Dûsh and his men fought hard to keep the roofs along the cordon clear, but were facing overwhelming numbers. Grublik's ranged fighters were facing the growing issue of limited supplies as they ran out of javelins and bolts, forcing them to scavenge for used projectiles from the dead that began to pile up in great mounds.

If the purpose had been to hold that one square she could easily close the pass off, but Snow had insisted she hold off from doing that until the army had to retreat for one reason or another. They wanted Tar-Medine's followers to bleed themselves as much as possible to try and reach them, to empty the barracks and keep all eyes on them while Snow did his work.

Down below, she could see another push being made. Grublik's men launched a single volley, picking off several of the attackers, thinning their numbers before they clashed with the defenders on the barricades. This one was bigger than before, she could tell even with the mass of bodies making it hard to pick out the living…which also had begun to make a convenient slope to climb the barricade itself.

"Alright Sheep, let's scatter 'em a little!" Rhae patted the dragon's flank while synchronizing their minds, allowing their spirits to bridge together their bodies that they might fight as one.

Seeing through Sheep's eyes, Rhae swept in for a pass at the street where the loyalist forces were massing, preparing to follow up on their latest attack. They had to expect that this one would break through, or at least weaken the barricade enough for a dedicated assault to succeed.

 _Fat chance of that._

Rhae opened her maw and belched out a stream of dragon fire, demolishing two buildings along one side and raining stone and timber down on the troops below. It was not as effective as a direct strafe, but it achieved the desired intent and scattered the orcs for now. The attackers made some headway, but fell when Tarak moved his more rested fighters up to shore up the barricade.

By now the original force of a thousand-some orcs had been cut down to less than half. Maybe over four hundred, if she was generous. But they had slain several times what they'd lost. Even if they fell today, Morgund'dur would be a lot less crowded by the time the fighting ended.

"Good work, Sheep." Rhae banked to one side to cross over the chasm towards the Outer Bailey. "Now let's get-"

A spike of agony erupted from Sheep's side and spread into her before they could break off the link. Rhae shrieked in pain, only held in place by the straps of her saddle much like Dark Sister was bound to her gauntlet. Beneath her, Sheep howled and veered sharply to one side, bleeding heavily from a puncture in his side where a projectile, seemingly made of smoke to any who had seen it, had struck him all the way from the ramparts of the keep.

There, gazing out over his burning fortress, Tar-Medine held a bow made of solid black material. "So good of you to show yourself," he pinched the bow string and drew it back, causing a second arrow forged from dark magic to manifest in place, "old friend."

The Sheepstealer dropped out of sight into the chasm, but he knew the dragon would emerge shortly. Be it by ascending or flying out to see in either direction to try and get away, it would have to expose itself and then he would end their long war with one swift-

Tar-Medine suddenly felt a familiar pain in his chest and gasped, releasing his arrow at the right time…but without having line up a shot it shot over the Sheepstealer as it emerged, struggling to keep airborne. The Lord of Morgund'dur breathed heavily, clutching one hand to his robes as his body coped with the sudden loss of something, something which it had depended on for several lifetimes.

"No…" He whispered, feeling old wounds threaten to open. "No, they couldn't have…"

Nearby, one of the sentries took notice of his hunched over posture. "My lord? Are you-"

With a gesture he immolated the speaker as a test, sending any other Orcs cowering away in silence as the fool wailed and threw himself off the tower. His magic, even weakened, was still formidable enough for what had to come next.

"You should have sailed home, boy." Flames began to lick at the edges of his robes. "All that happens next…is on your head."

Xxx

End of chapter

 _ **Captain Profiles**_

 **Name and Title:** Hurok the Undying

 **Tribe:** Mystic, said to be practitioners of dark magic among the orcs, even being capable of necromancy if the rumours hold truth.

 **Class:** Olog, known as troll-folk among the Orcs of Morgund'dur, the Olog'Hai fill a class of their own. Using imposing size and immense physical strength combined with surprising cunning, they are able to easily dispatch ill prepared foes. They are also able to prevent agile foes from vaulting over them, swatting them away like little more than bothersome flies.

 **Advanced Class:** Tank (Heavily armoured fighter who can withstand extraordinary amounts of damage)

Determination: Heals himself during battle through sheer willpower unless interrupted.

Wave of Might: Unleashes a wave of strength so powerful that it knocks back and disorients nearby enemies.

 **Strengths**

Mystic Blade: Uses the power of shadow to cross a great distance instantly and strike at opponents.

Cursed Weapon: Weapon is enchanted with a blighting hex which temporarily weakens enemies hit with it.

Iron Will: Cannot be compelled to betray his master by way of Dominate.

Beast Slayer: Is capable of dispatching beasts such as Cazarin with ease.

 **Weaknesses** :

Vulnerable to Executions: Takes greater damage from Execution attacks.

Fear of Burning: Becomes disoriented when burnt with fire.

Made by me, ArchPsion.

I know I've neglected this for a while but…review responses!

 **ManwithaPlan113:** When Olog'Hai join in, the party really begins!

 **Alvor the Warhawk:** One thing to remember is that while Talion was lethal, so too were the enemies he faced, as they scaled with him and grew more powerful with each victory or survived encounter. As for Jon's 'critical mass', you will see him slowly build towards something along that line.

 **N0mster** : You'll get a bit of both mixed in over the long term.

 **Sauron's Wrath:** I assume that you mean that sometimes Tar-Medine's name comes out as Tar-Medina, as I've noticed that happen frequently with my autocorrect. I've tried to spot it when it happens, but if it has been slipping through I may have too double back in the future and fix that. And a PM is a Private Message, which you require an account to send.

 **A quick side session with Professor Arc H. Psion.**

 **Both geographically and demographically…George is not the best at designing kingdoms. After looking at various sources I keep finding figures tossed around such as Westeros being about the size of South America with an overall population of 40 million (to hell with Dumb and Dumber saying less than half a million people occupy a space almost one third to one half that area even in the cold North).**

 **City populations (These are either taken from wiki sources or estimations)**

 **King's Landing: 500 000**

 **Oldtown: 500 000 (said to rival King's Landing)**

 **Lannisport: 250 000 (said to be half the size of King's Landing)**

 **Gulltown: 50 000-200 000 (estimations from varying forums)**

 **White Harbour: 30 000-100 000 (estimations from varying forums)**

 **Let's be generous and assume the populations lay at the highest possible amount: 1 550 000 people living in heavily urbanized centres out of about 40 million. About 3.75 percent. While about 38.5 million people are spread out over a continent the size of South America.**

 **For reference…**

 **Europe: Area of 10.18 million sq km (or 3.93 million sq miles), urbanization rate of 5.1 percent and average density of 20 people per sq mile in the year 1300 for a projected population of 79 million.**

 **South America: Area of 17.84 million sq km (or 6.89 million sq miles).**

 **Calculate density: 40 000 000 people divided by 6 890 000 = Density of 5.8 people.**

 **The point that I make here is that Westeros has almost twice as much available space as Europe and yet has barely half as many people in it, not enough to justify a medieval level society as unified as the Seven Kingdoms even before the Conquest. So either there are way more people than 40 million or Westeros is a lot smaller. Seeing as the latter is harder to make happen with the Wall's length being a fixed and confirmed measurement, I've decided to take liberties with the population of Westeros for this story.**

 **On a map the kingdoms may look cramped, particularly the smaller ones, but in truth those dots representing castles and cities wouldn't even be visible on the map if they were to scale with each building. Additionally, in the medieval ages there were hundreds of small cities with populations of around 10 000 spread across Europe, so Westeros can have a similar arrangement.**

 **Total Population: 60 000 000 (still less than what Europe had in the medieval ages)**

 **The Reach: 18 000 000 (France has just a little less in the 1300s)**

 **The Westerlands: 9 000 000**

 **The Riverlands: 7 500 000**

 **The Vale: 7 000 000**

 **The North:7 000 000**

 **The Crownlands (including the Narrow Sea houses): 3 500 000**

 **The Stormlands: 5 000 000**

 **Dorne: 3 000 000**

 **The Iron Islands (I don't count this towards the full population since they are relatively separated from Westeros, both geographically and culturally speaking, more so than the Narrow Sea houses): 750 000.**

 **If you want to hear my reasoning for these numbers, PM me. Otherwise…it's what I'm goingwith for this story.**


	23. Chapter 22: Battle of Morgund'dur-Part 3

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Xxx

 **Chapter Twenty-Two: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part Three: The Ring**

 **12** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **The Pit, Morgund'dur, Skane**

"SNOW! STOP!"

When Jon was finally able to bring himself to look away he beheld Hurok the Undying wheezing pathetically, his legs shattered beneath his bulk and his throat crumpling in Jon's grasp like aged parchment. He didn't remember how it had come to this, only the ring. Why was this bothersome Olog distracting him?

Jon took stock of his immediate surroundings and saw the war chief's hammer off to one side, the head snapped off and the haft further broken in half, some fading puffs of of smoke twisting and writhing up from the fragments.

"Death…" Hurok rasped, a glint of defiance still in his eyes. "Is not…the end."

Jon felt a thrill of satisfaction as his hand broke through and closed around something beneath the Olog's thick, grey flesh. "Tell me something I don't know."

With a single tug, he ripped Hurok's head off, dragging with it some traces of thick spinal cord. A geyser of rancid blood spurted from the stump, splashing over one side of Jons' face. Ser Davos let out a cross between a yelp and a disgusted groan as he was splattered, drawing Jon's attention to his remaining company.

"Ser Davos." He greeted them with what should have been warmth and relief, but somehow made the the old sailor step back as his already fair skin turned paler yet. "Tormund. It heartens me to see that you are both alright."

From their expressions, it seemed they could not say the same. Both smelt and looked as if they'd not bathed for days, their eyes ringed along the bottom with black bags and even the Giantsbane's great red beard had tangled into a worse mess than usual. Behind them, standing at the uppermost tier of the depression, was a hunched figure in a cloak and hood, framed in the torch lights. In the shadow of the hood he could see gleaming eyes…envious eyes.

And what didn't he have for others to envy? More power in one hand than any King could muster, dominion over the weak minded hordes and now…the most precious treasure in all of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond worn on his finger.

Let them envy him. It was only right.

"Snow." Davos' voice trembled. "Listen to me. Very carefully, lad."

"Why do you look at me with such unmasked fear?" Jon peered between the two older men.

"It's not you we're afraid of, lad." Tormund's hand shook as he pointed to Jon's hand. "It's that…thing."

"You need to take it off." Davos implored, holding his mutilated hand up while his other hovered by his side, gripping a roughly forged orcish blade. "Take it off before it's too late."

"Take it off?" Jon repeated, an unfamiliar levity in his tone as he held his hand up to gaze upon the ring's splendour. "Why would I do that?"

"We know what it does. We know what it's doing to you." Davos asserted. "You think that you want it, but that's what it wants."

Want? He could not want what was already his.

"You speak foolishness." Jon derided. "A ring can no more want than those bones you carried around could desire to be reattached to your fingers."

Davos inhaled sharply and took a step back. "How…how did you…"

For a moment, Jon wondered the same. He didn't recall ever speaking with Davos in great detail on his past. Oh he'd learned the broad strokes: his life as a smuggler, how he'd lost his fingers in the first place and his undying loyalty to Stannis. How such a dour and entitled man could inspire such loyalty from a man he'd maimed was an insult to all that was right and fair.

"You saved him." Jon reminded the old sailor. "Him and his brother. Saved them from starvation, risked your life to give them food to fill their bellies when they were down to eating rats and their own boots."

He chuckled coldly. "Then he knighted you, but only after you agreed to let him chop of your fingers. Hardly a hero's reward, wasn't it? Hardly the conduct of a grateful man. Why do you follow him like he's the Father reborn?"

"It's the ring!" Tormund hissed, slapping Davos on the arm. "Ignore his words. You know what must happen next."

Davos' face hardened. "Aye. So it comes to this." He nodded. "Last chance…take that ring off, or we'll take your whole arm off if that's what it takes."

 _Traitors. Thieves! They want it for themselves! But it's mine. Mine!_

"This is mine by right of conquest." Jon growled. "You will never hold it for as long as I bear it and I shall never part with it for as long as I live."

"You aren't wearing it, boy." The old woman called down, shaking her head in disappointment. "It's wearing you like a glove."

Tormund hefted a large axe. "Enough of this." He stepped forth. "Sorry about this, lad, but you'll come back from it anyways."

Taking the axe in both hands, the Giantsbane raised it high overhead with a roar and swung it down with all of his might, enough that he might have cleaved a man in half from brains to balls. Jon sidestepped and twisted his body, slapping the palm of his hand into the flat of the axe. Put off course, Tormund's own strength threw him off balance and left him open to a backhanded swing from the same hand, Jon's clenched fist clubbing him in the temple. The axe clattered to the floor and Tormund crumpled to his knees, head swaying before Jon gripped him by the roots of his hair and forced him to look up.

"You dare…" Jon hissed. "…to raise your blade against me?" He twisted is hand and Tormund groaned, reaching up to grasp his wrist. "Against…me? I, who saved you, your children, your people from extermination?"

The ring blazed like a star upon his free hand as he held it close to Tormund's face.

"I think you've forgotten your debt to me, Giantsbane." Jon's mouth curled into a savage grin. "Allow me to remind you who you serve."

"JON!" Davos bellowed, drowned out by Tormund's wail of agony as Jons hand latched onto his face. "Jon, don't do it!"

"Snow…" Tormund wheezed, his one visible eye bulging.

"It only hurts at first." Jon told him. "Then…you won't feel anything."

"YGRITTE!" Davos bellowed. "SHE'D DIE OF SHAME IF SHE SAW YOU!"

The breath was stolen from Jon's lungs. His hand slipped from Tormund's face and let the man collapse, his face unmarked.

 _Ygritte…oh gods-_

"Enough!" Jon's momentary weakness was taken advantage of…by the Bright Stranger himself, appearing to grasp Jon's head between his spectral hands. " _ **VAK FRA UM!**_ " He roared.

Fire courses down from his head and through every vein in his body, filling him to the tips of his fingers and toe and paralyzing him where he stood. This pierced the veil of his mind like a sword stabbing through his skull, fully shocking him back to his senses.

"Can't…fight…for long!" The Stranger snarled. "Your hand! Raise it!"

It was only with the Stranger's own influence aiding his will that Jon could manage this, slowly raising his arm out to one side. The ring felt like a band of white hot steel melting through his finger, digging its claws into his mind to try and reclaim power over him.

"Someone…get it- get if off!" Jon cried. "Someone-"

Metal sang through the air, and Jon's hand fell from his wrist. Jon experienced no pain, but instead felt like he'd been riding a horse or wagon only for it to come to a sudden halt, almost throwing him forward. He stared at the stump of his wrist, scarcely able to believe what his eyes told him. It had happened so quickly…he had barely felt it when the blade had parted hand and wrist.

He could still feel his hand there, feel his fingers twitch and curl at his command…and yet there his hand rested unmoving on the floor, the weirwood ring's markings emitting a fiery red glow.

But above that he felt a white hot pain shoot up his forearm, driving him to his knees where he cradled the stump. A strangled noise erupted from him, half way between a groan and a scream.

"For a time spanning generations I've sought this wretched trinket, biding my time and waiting for the opportunity where the Undying's guard would slacken even a little." The hooded woman sighed, a hand and a half longsword grasped in her trembling, boney hands. "And in scant a week of bumbling across Skane you just walk in and pluck it up without a thought."

She returned the blade, oversized for one of her stature, to a scabbard on her waist, prominently displaying the ruby embedded into the guard. "I suppose it goes to show you: this world is sometimes overly generous to the young and foolish." She glanced down. "Oh, well…that's one mess you don't need to worry about."

Jon's hand was gone, dissolved into mist which coiled up towards his wrist. Wrapping around his forearm, it engulfed his limb up to the elbow and when it dissipated his hand was back where it belonged, responding to his commands just like before-all without any ring to contend them.

He turned it over and felt it with his other hand. "My hand…"

"It is as I told you long before: you are barred from death…and the incorporeal need not fear being crippled." The Stranger told him, still present and glaring down at Jon with a stern disapproval that felt nostalgic. "But clearly they need fear weakness. Do not let that happen again."

A groan from Tormund made Jon's heart sink. "Tormund!" He hurried to his friend's side. "Oh gods, Tormund, are you alright?!"

"Urgh…fuck!" Tormund's fist swung up and struck Jon hard enough to send him sprawling.

"Stop! Stop!" Davos slammed into Tormund as he turned over and began to rise to deliver another blow. "It's off! The ring is off! He's back!"

Tormund snarled. "I know that!"

"Then why are you still trying to hit him?!"

"For bein' a daft fucker! Y'hear me Snow?! I've got another for you if you've marked my face!"

As the Giantsbane escaped from the Onion Knight's restraint, he was encircled by Jon's arms and had his arms pinned to his sides. He growled and struggled before realizing that Jon was not restraining him…but hugging him.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm so sorry, my friend."

Try as he might to remain wroth with the smaller man, Tormund soon succumbed and patted Jon's back with a sigh. "Alright, alright. Stop your bawlin', crow. You might be prettier than my daughters, but don't expect me to give you a kiss." He was able to ease Jon back a bit. "I'll forgive you this time. Do it again and I'll kill you…then we can drink and put it behind us."

"As touching as this is." The hooded woman knelt over the ring where she used a long, thin bladed dagger clearly made for stabbing rather than cutting to lift the ring off of the floor without touching it. "I believe that our host will be here soon, so I'd suggest that we leave now and you can have your reunion later…when I'm _very_ far away."

She tipped the ring into a pouch on her hip and bound it shut tightly. "That'll do for now." She patted it and fixed the trio with an expectant look. "Well? Would any of you care to escort a lady out of this forsaken place? It's choked with dead Orcs and I can say from experience they start to smell a lot worse than dead men after a…while."

The floor trembled beneath their feet as she finished her sentence. From far above where the Pit connected to the keep, there came a low rumbling…and then the crash of what sounded like a great drum being struck.

At the top of the shaft, a great light shone down upon them all.

"Tar-Medine…" The hooded woman hissed.

"This is him?" Jon shuddered as the drumming grew louder.

"It," the woman corrected him, looking to the nearest light as every torch and sconce flickered out, "has shed its smirking cocoon."

Just before the last of the torches went out and the Pit was plunged into almost total darkness, Jon saw brown eyes, wide with fear stare straight into him.

" _Run!_ "

Xxx

 **Morgund'dur, Surface**

To Baldric it felt as if he'd been fighting all day, but the slow rise of the sun shattered that illusion. It hadn't been two hours since the fighting had started.

It was beyond him, how that seemed to be both too little and too much time. He'd led raids beyond the Wall, assaults on pirate dens in the Shivering and Narrow Seas. Once he had even fought as far away as the Bay of Lorath where for the blood price of one-hundred and thirteen heads belonging to enemies of some great Magister he'd purchased the skilled minds and hands of ship builders.

They'd always been quick, over in minutes- sometimes taking him by surprise when he realized there was no one else to cleave into with his axe. Was this closer to how mainlanders fought? Hours of bloodshed, dragging on from one street to the next where roads would become so slick with blood, shit and piss that one could be up to their ankles in it without noticing. He'd been long disillusioned of the idea of war and glory going together, yet still he could not help but feel ill…by just at home he felt, surrounded by so much death.

But his men would not see him show weakness this day. No, they would see the almighty Lord of Magnar as he was always meant to be, just as with his father before him and so further on to the Age of Heroes and beyond.

"Don't give in!" He roared, lopping off a head with one swing and taking off an arm at the shoulder with a downwards chop. "This is our moment! Ours! The gods stand at our backs!"

He saw several bowmen get into position. "Incoming!" He snatched up a discarded tower shield and held it up, taking shelter with another fighter as black darts sank into several less fortunate nearby.

Behind him, his present company peeked out and leaned back in twice before Baldric heard a bowstring being drawn back. An arrow sang past him, followed by three more in quick succession before the orc archers fell silent. When Baldric moved the shield aside he saw each of them laid out atop the barricade with weirwood arrows sprouting from their chests. Looking back, he was met with the sight of Rhae, the Sheepstealer landed far behind her near the base of the inner wall where he nursed a deep wound in his side.

"Will he be alright?" Baldric asked.

"Wouldn't have been if that fucker got a second shot off." She did a quick count from her quiver. "Snow must have it."

"Then we should pull back." Baldric urged, painfully aware of how many they'd lost up to this point.

"Not yet." She said firmly. "Not until he signals."

"And if he doesn't?" Baldric asked.

As Rhae pondered that, the ground shuddered beneath them. This tremor was felt throughout both baileys, rippling through the stones at their feet.

"What…" Baldric slowly looked up at the towering keep. "The hell-"

Fire erupted from the towers of the keep, emerging at the tops like great black candles. The Loyalist Orcs had stopped throwing themselves against the barricades and now cowered, seeking shelter as globules off molten rock rained down on the streets.

A man near Baldric and Rhae burst into flames with a shriek as he was struck. One of Grublik's orcs was flattened, leaving only their feet poking out from under the the stone. Sheep howled and swept one wing out, sweeping several men under his body, shielding them while his armoured hide withstood several smaller impacts.

"What the hell is that?!" Baldric screamed, racing Rhae back towards her dragon.

"The Lord of this fucking castle is what that is!" She dropped and slid feet first into the Sheepstealer's shadow where more than a handful of others had massed. "Brace yourselves, lads and ladies!"

Xxx

Whoever she was, the woman knew her way around the catacombs like the back of her hand. In a fraction of the time it took for Jon to find the Pit she had led them to the street level of the Inner Bailey. Tormund had to support him, but only at first before Jon felt strength return to his legs; though perhaps that had been related to earth shaking foot steps of their pursuer getting closer than he liked. It took every ounce of self control not to accidentally leave his companions behind after that.

When they emerged into the open it was raining fire. Great shards of molten rock slammed into buildings and streets, melting stone and setting alight wood. Orcs fled for cover where they could find it, none of them wearing the crest of Jon's Captains.

"The hell is that?!" Tormund cried out as they hurried along, keeping their heads low.

"The tantrum of a man-child whose favourite toy has been taken away." The hooded woman said dryly. "Boy! You brought an army, didn't you? Take us to them!"

"They're holding position by the inner wall!" Jon led the way as the keep further devolved into an inferno which rained death upon the rest of the fortress. "Stay close!"

Xxx

"Will this ever stop?!" A stoneborn screamed, falling to his knees as the rain of fire continued to pelt the surrounding area.

"Stand firm! You're a son of Skagos!" Baldric gripped their arm. "And we don't let a little rain scare us off, no matter how hot it is! We hold here until Jon Snow walks through that barricade!"

"But what if he's dead?!" Ser Narbert cried. "What if he never comes back?! What if-"

Just as Rhae, Baldric or any of the nearby captains were ready to shut the Knight's mouth for him, the barricade exploded in a flash of green light. Through the dust, several figures raced into view.

"More orcs!" Baldric shouted. "Get ready!"

"Hold, Lord Magnar!" The nearest of them cleared the haze long before the rest did, revealing Jon with his hammer in hand. "Enough good blood has been spilt today."

A chorus rang up from the group hidden under Sheep and other nearby pockets of survivors.

"It's Lord Snow!"

"The Grave Wolf returns!"

"Barhdgul!"

"My Lord's returned!" Dûsh the Obsessed proclaimed with a grin. "And with such showmanship!"

Jon raised the Fist of the First Men and called out. "Form up and prepare to withdraw! We have what we came for. Victory belongs to us today!"

His presence rejuvenated the remaining orcs, now down to perhaps just over three hundred, who charged back through the bridge gate as the Skani raised the portcullis. The remains of the combined Westerosi expedition, down by less than half their original strength thanks to their Orc allies taking the brunt of the Olog charge, followed behind with the green cloaked Skani nimbly scaling down the sides of the gate to bring up the rear guard.

Jon saw the still fresh wound in Sheep's flank. "Rhae, will he still fly?"

"Not for long."

"Long enough to clear a path back to the gate?" Jon pressed. "If he can manage that, we can fight our way out on our own and scatter into the forests and hills."

Rhae looked up with concern as the dragon unfurled his wings and lowered himself down for her to mount. "I suppose we'll have to see." She clambered into the saddle. "See you at the end, Jon Snow."

Sheep kicked off of the ground and took to the sky, flapping his wings with greater difficulty. Jon waited until the last of the company was through the gate before moving to follow. He saw the hooded woman being carried upon Tormund's back, escorted by Davos and an ecstatic Baldric who enjoyed a brief reunion as they crossed the bridge.

Before Jon could get halfway across the gate exploded behind him, causing the bridge to shudder and shift. Tormund tripped and dropped his charge, who shouted and waved off Davos' hands as she climbed to her feet.

"Forget it! The bridge is collapsing! Run, you fools!"

 _They'll never make it across._ Jon realized as portions of the stone bridge began to give away. _The bridge will go any second!_

But then, something clicked in his head as his hand brushed the handle of the Fist.

 _By the strike of this hammer one has both the power to create and destroy._ The Stranger had told him.

 _The power to create and destroy…make and unmake._

And yet the hammer did not create, not in the sense of conjuring stone or ice from thin air. It altered, reshaped, made use of what was around it to achieve its intended purpose. It could chill or superheat air and rock to create frost or smelt ore into metal, entomb the Builder's crypt beneath many layers of ice and rock pulled from their surroundings…

Could it not fix a single bridge?

Jon swung the Fist down and felt its energies spread throughout the bridge, reaching from one anchor to the next. He could feel it as if every last piece was an extension of himself, thousands of little pieces detached from him and fitted together…crumbling. But there were more pieces beyond the bridge itself, many pieces that were made of the same material. He pulled them to him, and reshaped them to his whim so that they fit in place.

Sections of the Inner Bailey's wall collapsed as their foundations were ripped out from under them and forced to fill the gaps left in the bridge. When the process was complete Jon felt the bridge stand firm and steady under his feet, as good as before the day he had partially shattered it in his flight.

"Oh. Well." The hooded woman looked down. "That's hand- EE!"

Tormund had scooped her back up as he hastened to the far end. "Come on, Snow!" He shouted over his shoulder.

But Jon did not answer. He was facing the shroud of dark smoke which had spread to the edge of the Inner Bailey, pressing against the border once established by the now mostly collapsed wall. Flames hot enough to be felt from a distance spread ahead of them.

"It's him." Jon whispered, feeling Tar-Medine's gaze upon him.

"Snow! Don't think to fight him!" The woman shouted. "His strength will not fade so quickly! You cannot beat him, boy!"

"I know!" Jon replied. "But you all need to get away from here! Go! I will hold him for a time, then join you later! Lord Magnar, see that this is done!"

The Lord of Kingston did not hesitate to comply, directing his men to keep pushing behind the rebel Orcs towards the outer gate.

The flames built as they pushed out onto the bridge, parting to allow Tar-Medine to step forth and stand before Jon. Gone was the air of self assurance that had followed him in their last confrontation, replaced by grim resolve.

"Give it to me." The Lord of Morgund'dur hissed. "Return what is mine, Gravewalker! Do so, and you and your army may depart with your lives."

"Bargaining?" Jon feigned surprise. "You were not so reasonable when I gave you terms before. Your reign is over, go now from this land and _you_ may leave with _your_ life. The ring is yours no longer."

"Who else but I can hope to wield it?" Tar-Medine countered. "It has touched you. Yes, I feel it…you have felt a sample of the power that it can command."

"Power, yes…and the heavy cost that will reap upon any that it can sink its claws into." Jon rubbed his wrist where the woman's dark blade had sliced clean through. "Its sorcery would have seen me make slaves of my closest companions. I now wonder how much of it was imprinted unto you."

"Fool." Fire licked at the edges of Tar-Medine's robes. "You assume much of what you cannot hope to comprehend. You may think that you understand what you have taken from me, but you haven't any clue if its value. The ring will be mine again…but first: I am going to finish what we started and cleanse this world of the Builder's bloodline. Down to the last mangy wolf runt."

Sweeping both arms up, Tar-Medine immolated himself in a pillar of smoke and fire. Beneath this shroud, Jon witnessed something vast and terrifying take form.

A pair of great bat-like wings unfurled out to their full length on both sides. Clover feet as a carriage pressed down against the restored bridge, attached to legs encased in black armour. A tail uncoiled and became marked by a mane of embers which stretched up onto the back of this new form. Upon the torso was the fearsome glare of otherworldly flames contained within the dark hide, brightest at the very centre.

A head flanked by horns large enough to impale several men rose out of the shroud with bright diamond eyes and the look of something risen from Jon's nightmares. Tar-Medine stood up to a height almost equal to Wun-Wun's, flames billowing from its flesh as it opened its mouth. The sound that came out was like nothing Jon could ever imagine being made by beast or man, it was like the rumbling of thunder combined with the cracking of earth, the roar of the world's greatest furnace and the howl of a storm that would engulf the world.

Jon heard the Stranger and felt the fear in his voice, condensed down into a single word.

"Balrog."

Xxx

Many leagues to the south, Skagosi fishermen looked up to see a storm rising in the north. A hot, dry wind swept down over the island as wild life both on land and sea fled. The wargs of Kingston howled in terror and writhed where they fell next to their bonded skins.

Deep within the forests of Skagos, Rickon Stark awoke with a shriek and could not be consoled even in Osha's arms. Shaggydog's howls were joined by the cry of the Old Horns who sensed that a great evil had awakened.

To the west, at the growing town of Queenscrown, Mother Mole gasped and leaned upon her staff. Making her way to the highest window of the tower, she looked out to the east, feeling the cry of gods of earth and sky calling out to her.

They cried out. _Darkness! Darkness and fire!_

Back upon Skane, within the shadow of the Heartree of Ashcrown, Daemon the Weaver shuddered and fell to his knees with a strained gasp. Overhead, thousands of creatures within the Heartree's branches raced about in blind panic. Greater things that lay dormant beneath the roots shifted in restlessness, sensing what had just revealed itself for the world to hear.

Many hundreds of leagues away, all across the North it would be felt by others to varying degrees. Thousands of leagues further on throughout Westeros and Essos it would be a distant echo in the nightmares of many. When they awoke they would remember only the image of a great shadow…and within it, two red eyes with a stare that burned its way into their souls.

And the same warning screeched by many.

 _Darkness and fire!_

But to some things that heard this, it was not a warning…but a rallying cry.

Xxx

Jon felt like a flea attempting to stand against a force of nature, standing in the sight of his foe's true form. He wanted to run, to flee from Skane to the furthest corner of the world and pray that death would somehow take him before this monstrosity ever laid eyes on him again. Every instinct in him cried out to retreat, to live today than die against impossible odds. This was no longer a battle against shambling undead or Orcish aberrations…it was to become a slaughter, as one sided as a giant stepping upon an ant.

And yet his feet would not be lifted from their place.

 _If I run now._ He told himself. _Then everything I did to get here shall be for naught. Every life lost, every battle fought, every sacrifice made. The Starks of old shall look down upon me in shame. Jon Snow, craven and weakling, who antagonized a monster into stirring from its lair and then fled before it._

Gripping the Fist of the First Men in a shaking hand, Jon returned with a war cry of his own against the waking firestorm before him.

 _Every minute, every second that I buy is another that carries your tainted prize away from you! Without it you shall shrivel and die, as helpless as the many victims your petty kingdom has claimed to sustain itself. Come what may, even my own true death: you shall not pass!_

The Balrog lurched forward, stepping out onto the bridge. It raised one arm up to sweep him aside, but as Jon prepared to meet it with a swing of his hammer a shadow blocked the rising sun in the east and then slammed into the Balrog, knocking it over the side of the bridge. The Sheepstealer howled and spat a jet of flames as it ascended again. In her saddle, Rhae jabbed Dark Sister into the air victoriously.

Jon raced to the edge of the bridge only to stumble back as the Balrog shot back up, taking to the air on its own black wings, trailing smoke and fire behind it.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Jon whispered as he watched the Balrog pursue Sheepstealer high over Morgund'dur's Outer Bailey.

Sheepstealer, while much bigger than Tar-Medine, avoided him like the plague and attempted to come about to face him head on, but the Balrog proved faster and slammed into the dragon's flank, locking them into a tumbling descent which they broke away from and clashed twice more. Jon hurried to get beneath the battle, trying to conceive of some means of reaching them at such an altitude. Sheep passed low once, building up speed to rise up once again and knocked over several weakened buildings with the mere gust of his wings before the Balrog followed after. Jon loosed an arrow, but it came nowhere close to striking the demon as it ascended once more.

Time and time again, the two great creatures clashed, clawing and biting at one another. Rhae struck out with Dark Sister when she had the opportunity, stabbing into one of Tar-Medine's arms as he tried to wrap them around Sheep's neck. This saved the dragon more than once, allowing him to break free and retaliate.

But for any small successes they had, it was painfully clear to see that they were outmatched.

The Sheepstealer was old, the veteran of many battles and apparently of greater age than history would have him believe from Rhae's words. But Tar-Medine was something else, something timeless that did not wither with age, but grew stronger. Maybe it had been the ring that made him this way, or maybe he had always been this way.

Either way, it had become only a matter of when the Lord of Morgund'dur would strike true, but it had bought precious time. Jon had seen his allies trickling out through the front gates, fighting off packs of disorganized Orcs who attempted to stop them. He saw Tormund among them, carrying with him the hooded woman and the ring itself.

But time was still not on their side. Tar-Medine was weakened, but not so much that he was still at any disadvantage.

Coming to a stop high over the island, the Sheepstealer twisted about so that he was facing downwards and dove to meet his old enemy. Tar-Medine cackled and conjured in one hand a ball of fire which shaped itself, extending out to a point until it resembled a longsword. Sheep and Rhae were too late to react to this, breaking off as the blade of fire cut deep into the dragon's body, carried by his downward momentum. Tar-Medine hovered, flapping his wings to maintain his position as he gazed down, giving a cackle like a crack of thunder as he saw that he had severed Rhae's saddle on one side, sending saddle and rider both in a plummet while Sheep struggled to right himself.

Rhae flailed as she fell further from her dragon, reaching out futilely and crying out for him, her own voice lost in the winds that raced past her. The Outer Bailey closed in to meet her until she could see individual bodies from the previous battles scattered about the street beneath her.

In the final instant she let out a scream, and then felt everything stop.

 _Was that it?_ She opened her eyes. _I felt nothing…_

What she did feel was an arm wrapped around her, pulling her close against an armoured chest. Looking up, she found herself in the arms of Jon Snow, whose free hand gripped his hammer where it had dug into the side of one of the few towers spared by the dance of fire she had engaged in.

"Are you alright?" He asked her.

"I…yes." Rhae used the hand not bound to Dark Sister's hilt to pinch herself, unconvinced that she was still somehow alive. "You caught me?"

"Barely." Jon looked up and his eyes widened. "Hang on!"

He kicked away from the tower just before it was demolished in a wave of decimation that followed the Sheepstealer, who had managed to achieve only a controlled crash which still sent him sprawling through several streets of the mostly burnt and demolished Bailey. Jon flung the Fist again and warped to the top of the outer gate. Below where they stood, the last of the rebel orcs and westerosi warriors were pulling out.

Jon leapt down and set Rhae on her feet to find Tormund and his charge still present. "Giantsbane! I told you to get her out of here!"

Tormund spun with a shocked yelp at Jon's presence. "Fuck! Never goin' to get used to that."

"I am not one of your soldiers, boy." The hooded woman cleaned Orc blood off on her cloak. "And I wasn't leaving until you got her here." She pointed to Rhae, who was looking urgently back to where Sheep had crashed.

"I have to get back to Sheep!" She said as Tar-Medine came in for a landing. "That monster will butcher him!"

"You'll only get yourself killed, girl." The hooded woman blocked her. "This isn't a fight for mortals." She nodded to Jon. "It's a fight for this fool, and it'll still be an uphill battle like no other with a dragon on his side."

"I'll keep the Sheepstealer safe until he can get away." Jon said, and reared back his arm to fling the Fist before Rhae held up an arm.

"Wait! Take this then." She began to unbind Dark Sister from her grip. "Whatever he is now, Valyrian Steel hurt him, if only a little. Maybe you'll do better than I did." She offered the legendary sword of Viserys Targaryen, a piece of history thought lost, to him.

"No. No." The hooded woman intervened. "Dark Sister is a fine blade, but she is made for a woman's hand. No, you fight with a bastard sword." She tapped her staff against Longclaw's hilt. "Here, something more your size."

Untying her own weapon from her belt, the old woman held it out with the ruby encrusted pommel pointed at Jon. The proportions were almost that of Longclaw's, only a little bigger, and undeniably a better fit for him to wield. Still, Jon tested it first by wrapping his hand around the hilt and pulling it from its sheath with a melodious ring.

Like Dark Sister, the blade was dark with a rippling pattern in the steel. Holding it up, Jon felt like the weapon had been made for his hand to hold. He had always had a period of adjusting to new weapons, even to Longclaw which had become like a part of him…but he felt that same connection as soon as he unsheathed this instrument.

And holding it close to Dark Sister, a jolt ran through Jon's mind as he realized how similar the two were, almost like twin siblings…

"Blackfyre." He whispered, gazing upon the fabled sword of Aegon the Conqueror and Daemon Blackfyre, once said to be the blade of kings before the reign of Aegon the Unworthy.

Not one, but both of the Targaryen ancestral weapons had been on Skane for gods know how long, along with a dragon and a line of dragon seeds…almost like they had been waiting for him.

Taking the scabbard, Jon sheathed the weapon and nodded to the old woman. "Thank you."

"Just go!" She waved him off and tugged Rhae along. "Come along, dragon rider. Our part in this is over."

Ser Davos nodded to Jon as he followed. "Seven be with you, lad."

"The Old Gods too." Baldric said, and called over his shoulder. "This almost makes me glad I didn't riddle you with arrows when you crawled to my doorstep!"

Tormund grasped Jon's forearm and gave it a squeeze. "Go take his head." He said with a smirk. "And don't you think of dying again, Snow."

Jon returned the gesture. "Get the fuck out of here, Giantsbane." He replied, and shoved him through the gate.

After securing Blackfyre to his waist, opposite of where Longclaw and the Fist hung, Jon raced to where the Sheepstealer had crashed. Some Orcs crossed his path on the way, but they were more focused on escaping the blaze than impeding him.

This was not their fight anymore, but had triggered the events that led to this moment, and now he would see it through to the end.

And he would do it with ice in one hand and fire in the other.

Xxx

End of Chapter

I won't lie, originally I had thought of ending the Skane arc with this chapter, but felt that it was starting to get long enough as it was. But the next chapter will definitely be the finale, so stay tuned and hold onto your smallclothes, folks!

Vak (v-AW-k) = Awaken (variants: Vaka = Awake.)

Fra (F-rr-ah) = From

Um (Oo-m) = Dark/Darkness/Night


	24. Chapter 23: Battle of Morgund'dur-Part 4

Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

 _The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it._

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

 **Also, a Public Service Announcement.**

 **This year has been an ordeal in and of itself for many due to the outbreak of COVID-19. What is important right now is to help in addressing and eradicating the threat it represents. So to that end: stay. The hell. Home. Don't go out if you need to, remain away from others unless necessary and never gather in large groups- don't even tell me if stories regarding 'Coronavirus Parties' are true or my faith in humanity might dry up.**

 **There are many people who refuse to acknowledge the threat and persist in leading their regular social lives to the detriment of others. The best thing that you can do is remain home, only leave for necessities or arrange for them to be delivered to you if possible (Or if it is for offering your time in helping others to cope: For example, I volunteered and spent this morning packing groceries at my local grocery store to be delivered to people who have been in isolation for days or weeks).**

 **Do NOT travel between towns and cities, across state or provincial borders and especially not international borders!**

 **Do NOT assume that because there are no confirmed cases near you that you have no chance of being infected. Practice common sense and basic sanitary diligence.**

 **Do NOT assume that the rules governing prevention do not apply to you just because you don't feel sick (asymptomatic carriers are a thing, people, and this virus has killed 40 year old health nuts and left 60 year olds on cruise ships with just a sniffle, so don't take a chance).**

 **I found a youtube video by one Charlie Hopkinson, a brilliant impressionist who flawlessly replicates the voices of some of our favourite characters. He used his talent to create videos with his impressions where Gandalf the Grey cites the importance of small, personal sacrifices to get things back to normal. He also had a more humorous version where Tyrion Lannister must cope with the seven deadly stages of quarantine while trying to survive his father's conspiracy theories and aspirations to build a paper mache horse at the worst time; and another where Thorin Oakenshield (aka: Thorin TP Hoarder) finds himself besieged by an army of elves following Curry Night. I'd recommend checking them out, as humour sometimes is the best way of getting a good point across and help relieve some tension.**

 **It can't hurt to carry around a bottle of hand sanitizer, either.**

Xxx

 **Chapter Twenty-Three: Battle of Morgund'dur, Part Four: Ice and Fire**

 **12** **th** **Day of the 11** **th** **Moon of 300 AC**

 **Morgund'dur, Outer Bailey, Skane**

The Sheepstealer had not landed elegantly. Left limping following his crash-landing, he was easy prey for the Balrog, which swept down and slammed into the dragon as he attempted to rise onto all fours. This bowled Sheep over and left him on his back, howling feebly as the years and the battles stretched across his life reaped their toll upon him. The Balrog perched upon his scaled breast, sneering down at him.

" _ **Our long war ends today,**_ " Tar-Medine hissed, expelling flames through his nostrils. " _ **Old friend.**_ "

He pressed one cloven foot down onto Sheep's neck and held up one arm. Hellish flames collected in his palm and expanded outwards, forming a new weapon: this one a great whip of fire which coiled around Sheep's neck, digging into his scales and triggering a new agitated cry from the old dragon. In Tar-Medine's other hand formed a long glaive which he poised to plunge down into Sheep's skull.

" _ **Take one last look at your precious island, Dannendîr.**_ " Tar-Medine taunted. " _ **For from its ashes…shall rise the Kingdom of Tol Dìnen.**_ "

Tightening the snare of the fire-whip, the Balrog raised his glaive up and thrust it down. Before his attack could land however, something struck him in his shoulder and caused his blade to move off to one side, stabbing into stone which hissed, bubbled and melted from the extreme heat. Before he could recover, the Sheepstealer used this distraction to latch his jaws around the arm holding onto the fire-whip. Tar-Medinae howled as he was flung off to one side, crashing into an demolishing the remains of a barracks.

He pulled himself to his feet and snarled, finding his path barred by a figure wielding a sword in one hand and hammer in the other.

Jon Snow glared up at the Balrog. "You shall not harm him." He declared, a faint green glow framing one side of his face down to the hand which wielded the Fist of the First Men.

Behind him, the Sheepstealer groaned as he climbed back to his feet. At first the dragon positioned himself to face his foe and let loose a brief jet of flame before Jon shouted.

"Go!" He turned halfway and glanced between dragon and Balrog. "Fly! You cannot fall today, your people still need you!"

The Sheepstealer squawked at this command, torn between surprise and indignation from the look he gave Jon.

"I. Said." Jon manifested the Bright Stranger partially and locked eyes with the Sheepstealer, briefly viewing himself through its clouded eyes, seeing himself as a figure one-half that of a young man in his prime, the other a shrivelled and luminous figure cast in pale green light. " _ **GO!**_ "

Recoiling, the ancient dragon turned and took to the sky. Tar-Medine made to throw his glaive after him, but paused as Jon reared back his hammer.

"Don't try it." He warned.

A chuckle escaped from the Balrog, who dismissed his weapon. " _ **I am torn between being astounded by your stubbornness…or impressed by your audacity, Gravewalker.**_ "

"Without audacity, little of worth is ever accomplished." Jon said. "Today has reaped a heavy toll and claimed many lives, but if it ends with your final breath then I will learn to live with myself."

" _ **But you won't live, not truly.**_ " Tar-Medine leaned down. " _ **You must know by now that while a natural death is no longer over the horizon, your days as Jon Snow have grown shorter than ever before. I'm almost tempted to take your original offer just so that I can return one day to bear witness to what you shall become.**_ "

Something in the Balrog's words sent a spike of fear shooting through Jon. Not fear of the demon standing before him, but of something far off, peeking at him from across a distant horizon. There was a certainty in Tar-Medine's speech, as if he had seen others like Jon before, other Gravewalkers…and the fate that they met with.

But whatever that fate may be, he would not face it today.

"You've exhausted my mercy, there will be no escape for you today." Jon lowered the Fist to his side. "You've lost, my _Lord._ Your ring will be beyond your reach, your power will fade and you shall wither."

" _ **Death is nothing for me to fear, Little Gravewalker.**_ "The Balrog rumbled. " _ **I have felt its embrace and clawed my way back time and time again. You may destroy my form today, but this world- this…imperfect, intrinsically flawed world shall allow me to rise once again. But before that happens, I shall see you suffer for the offence you've inflicted on me.**_ "

Standing up, the Balrog cast his stare to the west. " _ **From the Neck to the Wall, from the Bay of Ice to the White Knife and from Flint's Finger to East-Watch…all shall feel the fallout of what you have done here today, Son of Eddard. Wherever I cast my shadow, fire shall spread and ash shall blanket the lands where no sunlight shall ever shine again. And the last thing that your people shall hear shall be…"**_

With whip in one hand and crackling blade in the other, the Balrog boomed. " _ **Hail, Jon Snow! Harbinger of the Last Winter!**_ "

The whip cracked against the ground as Jon threw himself to one side. As Tar-Medine stepped forth, Jon struck the Fist against the street, which rose up in a wave that rippled outward and slammed into the Balrog, who threw an arm up to brush the shower of stone aside. Down came the blade of fire and nearly cut Jon down, but he met it with an upwards swing of the Fist where two polar opposite flavours of magic collided explosively. To one side, a rush of air colder than any ice found beyond the Wall formed frost and extinguished fires, forming a coating of glare ice which gleamed in the morning sun; to the other a wave of fire scorched black all in its path.

Tar-Medine roared and cracked his whip again, but it caught around Blackfyre's blade and pulled taut as the two grappled. Jon began to lose purchase, feeling his boots scrape across the ground. He swung the Fist up again and watched as the whip flare and burst into nothing, this effect spreading back to its master's hand to leave him bereft.

Jon used the opening to fling the Fist towards the Balrog's feet and warped to it, reappearing close enough to cut into the side of one leg. A sound of tearing metal filled the air as Blackfyre cleaved through the hide, spilling out fire and molten lifeblood. Jon repeated this with the other leg and rolled as he landed, the sound of Tar-Medine's agony a sweet song to his ears.

"Is this all?!" He shouted, turning as the demon's wounds melted shut. "Is this all that the King of Skane can muster?!"

Tar-Medine answered by forming his glaive and sweeping it out in a wide swing, tearing up or shattering anything in its path. Jon leapt over it and charged for the legs again. The glaive stabbed down in his path, and as he moved to one side to avoid it he felt the ground crumble beneath him.

Taken off guard, he fell a considerable distance beneath the streets of Morgund'dur and slammed into solid rock.

Xxx

" _You've done it." Daemon sounded impressed when Jon opened his eyes. "No shame in running now."_

" _I can't do that." Jon scrambled towards the Weaver's seat. "He is not beaten yet. In his death throes he will destroy my homeland and no man nor instrument crafted by the hand of man can stand against him. He needs to die here! Now!"_

" _And if you die at his hand, you might be gone for good!" Daemon exclaimed. "Lad, you can't save everyone. Time and strain will weaken him, if you just- where did you get that sword?"_

 _When Jon opened his mouth to answer he felt something bite into his arm. "Fuck!"_

" _No-no-no don't you wake up yet you motherless-"_

Xxx

"GHÛL!" The Bright Stranger bellowed in his face as Jon awoke to find himself being mobbed on all sides.

Dozens of creatures, all of them with emaciated figures and hunched postures clawed at him and sank their teeth in where they could find purchase. Jon kicked and thrashed, driving his fist into the jaw of a set of jaws hovering before his face, causing a breath of rancid air to be expelled just in time for him to remember that he no longer needed to breathe. His other hand had hold of Blackfyre, but with so many of the wretches piled onto him he could barely lift his arm much less put the Valyrian steel to use.

"The Fist!" The Stranger shouted, standing over Jon. "Get to the hammer!"

Jon realized his meaning and warped to where the Fist had landed several meters away, leaving the Ghuls to fight over empty space. In their frantic urge to feed they barely noticed he was gone as they began to bite and claw at one another.

Jon stood up and sank Blackfyre into the face of one that hadn't been close enough to be bought in by his disappearance. "What are these things?!" He kicked out at another and shattered several of its teeth.

From a better angle he could now see their rat-like heads and bulbous glowing yellow eyes.

"Ghûls! Wretches! Nocturnal carrion with venomous bites." The Stranger sneered at the growing mound. "It seems we disturbed their slumber."

Jon had landed in a cavern that was teeming with these Ghûls, many of which were clustering together to glare hungrily at Jon while more spilled in from nearby passages or dug their way through the walls and floor.

But before they could pounce, a glow from above drew both their and Jon's attention. An inferno rained down on them from the same shaft that he had just fallen from, partly obscuring the figure of Tar-Medinae as he burrowed his way down after him. Molten rock rained down in droplets which scattered many of the Ghûls, with the rest breaking as fire erupted in the midst of their nest.

"RUN!" The Stranger roared.

Jon already had manifested his bow, seeing an opportunity in the flow of Ghûls now forcing their way out of the chamber through any means available to them. He used them as stepping stones, firing one arrow and using it to warp to them as they were punctured through their head or chest, then carrying on and repeating this with another further ahead. This allowed him to gain significant ground, skipping dozens and then hundreds of feet which he put between himself and Tar-Medine.

But in his haste he had not thought to seek one of the passages to the surface. Instead he found himself returning to a familiar area of Morgund'dur's presently crumbling underbelly: the western watch point where he had not so long ago infiltrated the catacombs. Only this time instead of the perch beneath the Inner Bailey, he'd found himself staring at it from a counterpart beneath the Outer Bailey.

"Climb!" The Stranger urged him, the sound of collapsing rock and blasting fire all the encouragement that Jon needed to move to one side of the opening and search for a handhold which he used to swing himself out onto the cliff face before a jet of fire erupted from the cavern mouth.

Jon felt the cliff begin to heat up under his hands as he moved to scale it, finding easy purchase until the entire shelf seemed to fall apart beneath him, crumbling away as Tar-Medine demolished the foundations of his own fort, sending an entire outer section plunging into the Shivering Sea.

" _ **Why do you run, Gravewalker?!**_ " Tar-Medine called out, now exposed to the daylight in a cavity he'd melted into the cave systems large enough to accommodate his stature. " _ **You seemed so courageous a short time ago!**_ "

The Balrog held his hands out and shaped a long spear. " _ **Perhaps you don't really care for that frozen wasteland after all.**_ "

He reared back his arm and flung the spear at Jon, who launched himself to one side and plummeted until he could grab onto an outcropping. The spear exploded and rained down much debris onto the rocks at the cliff's foundation. He saw the Balrog prepare a second spear before a rush of wind swept past Jon, who found himself being snatched off of the cliff at the last second by a set of claws so large that they formed a cage around him.

"Sheep!?" He shouted as Tar-Medine howled in frustration below. "I told you to go!"

He felt the dragon touch the edge of his mind again, briefly giving him a glimpse of the dragon's flight path. Jon tried to maintain the link, but be it from inexperience or his undead nature he could not hold it for more than a handful of moments.

In that time the dragon was able to make one thing clear to him: this was his fight as much as it was Jon's, and he'd waited multiple lifetimes to see it to its end. He would not let this chance be taken from him, even by a Gravewalker.

 _Save me from the stubbornness of dragons._

Behind them, Jon saw a set of black wings flare out. "He's coming after us!"

The Sheepstealer acknowledged this, veering to one side to pass over the peninsula and dive down towards the eastern shore, conveying his intent through their sporadically bridged minds to drop Jon somewhere safe.

"No! I have an idea!" Jon shook his head, and felt the dragon's curiosity- an invitation to elaborate. "Fly up! As high and fast as you can manage."

The dragon protested, fearing rightfully that the Balrog would overtake him.

"I know, but we need to be high up for this!" Jon argued, and the dragon relented, rising as sharply as he could manage in his condition as the Balrog pursued, steadily closing the distance.

Once Sheep came close to passing above the lowest clouds, Jon grasped the Fist of the First Men and held it out through the cage of the dragon's claws. An updraft roared past them, carrying the Sheepstealer higher as hot air was drawn up and away from the ocean and isle, rapidly cooling as water vapours became rapidly growing dark clouds that cut Tar-Medinae off from his prey. The Balrog ploughed through the cloud cover, undeterred by the crack of lightning around him.

Then he finally emerged, rising above a dark field bordered by great rumbling clouds on all sides which obscured his vision, blocking out the sun in the east but showing him a glimpse of clear blue sky further up.

" _ **A clever trick.**_ " Tar-Medine admitted. " _ **But you cannot hide in here forever.**_ "

Then, from overhead, the Sheepstealer erupted from the nearby cloud cover and slammed into him, driving Tar-Medinae downwards and latching his jaws onto the Balrog's neck. Both fighters and their passenger plunged back into the storm, struggling blindly even as the clouds dissipated as quickly as they'd formed, exposing the glittering waters of the Shivering Sea and the dot of green that was Skane.

The Balrog's claws tore at the side of Sheep's head, managing to rip himself free of the dragon's jaws. Sheep now struggled simply to get his head free as Tar-Medinae dug his claws in.

" _ **BURN!**_ " He roared, and enveloped Sheep's head and neck in his otherworldly fire, scorching the dragon's scales and making him howl in pain. " _ **BURN WITH THE REST OF THEM-**_ "

Another crack of thunder split the air, and Tar-Medine lost his hold. Something had hit him in his chest, dislodging him and splitting him and Sheep apart. He flipped himself over and attempted to spread his wings, briefly slowing his descent before he felt something cut through one of his wings like wet parchment, slicing a long line down through the membrane. With another shriek the Balrog's plummet resumed, now joined by the Gravewalke, Blackfyre in hand.

" _ **WRETCHED RUNT OF THE LITTER!**_ " Tar-Medine's hand closed around Jon, enveloping most of his body below his chest and drawing a pained cry from the Gravewalker, the grip like hot metal pressing against him from all sides.

And then the Sheepstealer slammed into him from above, weakening his hold long enough to snatch Jon away.

"Sheep!" Jon howled. "NO!"

Sheep spread his wings and let Tar-Medine finish his plummet while trying to veer away from the ground. The dragon had cost himself the chance for a safe landing in his haste to catch the Gravewalker. He only just managed to turn a straight fall into an uncontrolled crash. His wings crumpled and he lost what little control he'd managed, tumbling down to smash through several dozen trees before coming to a stop, a broken and bloodied heap.

And in his claws, Jon remained protected both by the dragon's talons and by his own sturdy and regenerative nature, alive but drifting in and out of consciousness yet again.

"Sheep…" He murmured, closing his eyes for just a second…

Xxx

… _and opening them to Daemon leaning over him. "Steady, Jon." He placed a hand on Jon's chest. "Gather yourself."_

" _Sheep!" Jon gasped. "He's hurt!"_

" _I know." Daemon whispered, looking and sounding older than ever before. "I know, lad."_

" _The Balrog-"_

" _He lives. Barely." Daemon helped Jon up. "That sword. Blackfyre. Where did you come by it?"_

" _Who cares about a bloody sword?!" Jon demanded. "Some old woman who was in the fortress gave it to me! Sheep is dying right now!"_

" _Describe her! Please!" Daemon pleaded, actually getting down on his knees and grasping Jon's surcoat. "Please…"_

 _For whatever reason, seeing the usually proud man grovelling compelled Jon to indulge him. "Dark skinned…like a summer islander. With a slit nose. I saw little else of her, save a few grey hairs."_

 _Daemon gasped. "It's her, then…she was there all this time and I…" He placed a hand on his head. "Gods forgive me, I left her there alone…"_

" _Daemon, whoever this woman is, we have bigger problems!"_

" _I'm aware of that!" Daemon pushed himself to his feet. "And I know what must now be done. When you awaken, keep Sheep safe just a while longer. I need time before I can help you."_

" _What do you intend?" Jon asked._

" _Never you mind. Just do as I say!" Daemon snapped, falling back into his more familiar demeanour. "And…tell Rhae that I love her. In fact, give my love to both of them."_

" _Both of them-"_

Xxx

Jon gasped and sat up, almost bumping his head against a single one of Sheep's digits. The whole forest was trembling, as if Skane was set to shake herself to pieces. Fires spread from the west, joined by Tar-Medine's howl.

" _ **GRAVEWALKER!**_ "

Jon crawled out between Sheep's claws and moved away to get a full view of where the ancient dragon now rested. His wings were shattered, both of them- perhaps beyond any hope of being mended without the expertise of the Ancient Valyrians themselves. He still somehow drew breath, his chest still rising and falling while one of his eyes was half open, staring at Jon.

"Gods, Sheep…" Jon set a hand on the dragon's snout. "It's alright. He won't get you."

A low rumble answered him, a weak attempt compared to what the dragon was capable of bellowing before. Something within Jon tore, knowing that this had been a result of his plan, however unintended and unanticipated it might have been.

" _ **GRAVEWALKER!**_ " Tar-Medine raged, the fires spreading further east towards them.

Jon turned and drew Blackfyre, coming to face a number of Orcs who trickled in from the trees. None of them were his, and they seemed most fixed upon Sheep where he lay.

"You will not touch him." He hissed, manifesting the Stranger visibly again for them to see. " _ **THE NORTH REMEMBERS!**_ "

Xxx

 **Ashcrown**

Daemon limped to the base of the Heartree and fell to his knees, tossing his staff aside. "Hear me!" He cried, drawing back the sleeve of his robes. "Hear me, gods of Earth and Sky! Of Ice and Fire! Of Sun and Shadow! Hear me, Mother Skane! Your children beseech your aid this day!"

The roots at the base of the Heartree groaned and shifted, unwinding themselves from long set knots and easing apart to expose a hole too small for a man to fit into…but just right for the little figure which crawled out into the light of day.

Its flesh was grey and like the bark of a dead tree, its eyes black orbs and its teeth sharp, yellowed fangs that it bared in a grin. It wore what looked like the red leaves of a Heartree shaped to create a dress which adorned its small, child-like form.

"Do you call upon the Dark Mother's boon, Weaver?" It asked of him.

Daemon nodded. "I do."

"Be you prepared for the cost?"

"I am."

Reaching down to one side, it revealed a blade of pure obsidian bound to a weirwood hilt. "Then you know what you must do." It whispered. "Say the words…awaken her, Weaver."

Daemon's shaking hand accepted the dragonglass dagger. "From the Great Wood we are b-born." He stammered, dragging the blade up one of his forearm on the underside, from wrist to elbow. "To the Great Wood, w-we return." He repeated this with his other arm and grasped the dagger in both hands, pointing it towards himself. "By the blood of your servant, I awaken you. By this offering of blood and water, I beg your favour- aaaagh!"

He sliced through the front of his robes and sank the dagger into the centre of his rib cage. He struggled to breath, forming the final words.

"Blood…and water…" He wheezed. "For Sheep..."

Others like the child emerged from beneath the Heartree through the now enlarged gap in the roots and seized him by his robes. Their leader's grin had grown by the end of his speech.

"The Dark Mother hears you, Weaver." A long black tongue licked at its cracked lips. "For your long service in her name, your boon shall be granted."

They dragged him beneath the Heartree, down into the damp darkness. And there, in his final moments as Daemon felt many things crawl across his body, feeding upon him, he whispered through a mouthful of gnashing pincers and skittering legs.

" _Hail…Mother Skane…."_

Xxx

 **Morgund'dur**

"Keep pushing!" Ser Narbert Grandison barely had any strength left in his sword arm, and yet he still would not let himself be anywhere but the van with his several remaining men. "We're almost to the pass!"

The hordes of Morgund'dur were not finished yet. Outposts across the territory were sending Orcs to try and cut off the pass to the south, and without the dragon to clear these obstacles it had fallen to him and his knights to lead the charge. For all the unflattering things that could be said about him and most in his command, they were not mere brawlers who had been gifted knighthood, but trained fighters who had drilled relentlessly under his Lord-Brother at Grandview and bloodied at the Blackwater.

The Stormlands had never fielded armies as numerous as any of the kingdoms besides Dorne, nor was it as wealthy in that same regard. The Durrandons had always gone to war counting on being outnumbered, especially during their campaigns in the Riverlands and what was now the Crownlands. The Marcher Lords were particularly known for their martial values, producing some of the finest bowmen in Westeros and Essos. Once the Durrandons had extended their reach as far as the Neck and had fought tooth and nail even while losing these holdings to Ironborn and fending off Gardener Kings.

By no means were they the Ghiscari or Unsullied Legions reborn, nor could every man who wore a Stormland sigil be counted on as a reliable fighter, but Ser Narbert showed the Orcs that the seven raging Stormland Knights cutting through their ranks were nothing to be scoffed at. Their armour was blood stained and dented from many hits, with, at least one man's skull bleeding beneath the layers of padding and metal. Their weapons were becoming dulled and weak, but still they pushed on, cutting and beating anything in their path while behind them the more numerous forces of the Skagosi and Skani held the flanks, and the rebel Orcs held the rear where the enemy's forces were at their greatest.

Parrying an overhead strike from a club, he bashed his sword pommel into his attacker's face, pressed the edge of his blade into their throat while bracing it with one gauntlet-clad hand and dragged it across while flinging them to the ground. An axe clanged off of his helmet and rung his skull like a bell, making him drop his sword. He stumbled down onto one knee and fumbled for a dagger in his boot, feigning weakness until he saw the leg of the culprit enter view through his helmet's visor. He plunged the dagger into their knee, grabbed their axe-hand by the wrist and drove the spiked knuckles of his gauntlet into their face until it was a mess of pulp and shattered teeth.

"Ser Narbert, reinforcements!" One of his knights shouted.

Narbert looked up as men wearing the Lord's Brand surged out of the pass into the south, chopping down the few remaining orcs in the way from behind with minimal losses. The tall, red clad figure of Melisandre joined them, appearing with an almost ethereal glow that parted the mist which had fallen over the pass.

"Ser Narbert." She greeted him as wounded were hurried into the pass. "You have pleased the Lord of Light this day, but there is one last thing which he must ask of you and your men."

Barely able to find the strength to get off of the orc corpse, Ser Narbert stumbled over and bowed his head. "My lady…His will shall be done." He was joined in this by his remaining knights. "Tell us what He commands."

"The Lord has asked for much to be sacrificed in his name, but in my folly I had squandered his gifts, believing that it was in Kings' Blood that power would be found." Melisandre bowed her head in penance. "But he has shown me the truth: that beneath him, all from the poorest popper to the most devout ruler are all equal, so too is their blood. It is in their fealty to him that the power lies, and in the actions which they take in his name. Blood is but a catalyst through which his gifts can be accessed with his blessing."

She pointed to the burning fortress in the north. "Nor does he accept sacrifices of the unwilling or nonbelievers. No, Ser Narbert…what he requires today is for you to willingly offer your life up in one final act of service so that the world may be spared the machinations of the pretender who perverts the Lord's gifts, this Tar-Medine."

"My life is His, Lady Melisandre." Narbert looked up. "Tell me what must be done."

Melisandre looked to the rest of the assembled knights. "You need not join in this if you do not wish to. The Lord asks for only one life, not seven."

"We stand with Ser Narbert to the end, my lady." One of the knights answered. "We fight in the Lord of Light's name, and we shall not cower in the face of his enemies. Tell us what must be done."

"Jon Snow needs your aid to vanquish the pretender." Melisandre said, her eyes wandering to where Baldric Magnar was carrying a wounded Skani ranger over his shoulders while Tormund helped a young woman with a shattered leg to limp onwards. "In fact…he will need all the help that he can get."

Xxx

Another Orc's head exploded as their body was overtaxed, their life force fed into Jon to revitalize him from his fall. Another leapt from an out cropping and stabbed down with a spear, but Jon grabbed it by the haft and used their own momentum to fling them away, flinging the spear through a third that tried to go for Sheep. Three score had tried to reach Sheep and been laid low, some by one another but most cut apart by Blackfyre or crushed under the Fist.

But hundreds more came, sensing easy prey. They heralded their master's arrival, seeking to wear down Sheep's lone defender through attrition. The Gravewalker unleashed ice and spectral fire upon them, blinking from one end of the battlefield to the next as he fought on multiple fronts to hold the line singlehandedly.

For a time, Jon entered a rhythm. He would appear and fling the Fist to his next destination, sometimes striking an Orc in the process. Then he would cut down as many as he could in the time allotted and then warp to the Fist, using it more than once to shake and shatter the earth itself, shaking the attackers about and buying him precious seconds to move on and begin the cycle anew.

But it was not enough, not with long it took for Daemon to do…whatever it was he planned. As the tide became too much for Jon to hold, much less turn back, he used the Fist to rapidly construct a fortification around Sheep. With a few well places trikes at key areas the dragon was enveloped by a ring fort of jutting stone spikes jutting up from the ground and pointed outwards and managed to skewer more than one Orc that had been too close.

Jon stood atop the highest point to keep watch on the surrounding, staring into a sea of Orcs that howled and sneered up at him. The mass parted for Tar-Medine, who cared not if any were trampled underfoot or set alight, the tattered membrane of one of his wings dragging behind him as he advanced. Forgoing his usual mockery, the Balrog wielded a great axe fit for a headsman of giants and approached the ring fort.

"TAR! MEDINE!" The Orcs chanted, bashing the bases of spears into the ground and clanging blades against shields and armour. "TAR! MEDINE!"

The Sheepstealer groaned as he tried to push himself up to no avail. When that failed he expelled a short-lived jet of dragon fire towards Tar-Medine, but only succeeded in scorching the top of the ring fort's wall.

"Stay down, Sheep!" Jon ordered, mustering the Fist's elemental energies for a single attack.

The Balrog raised his axe up, grasping it with both hands.

 _Is this akin to what my father saw in his last moments?_ Jon wondered. _Helpless to do anything but watch, just like Sheep?_

Only Ned Stark had no one to stand in his defence that day. The Sheepstealer would not come to harm, even if Jon had to against his would-be executioner all on his own.

As the axe began its descent, something whistled through the air and slammed into Tar-Medine's chest. A second projectile followed, striking his shoulder. Each impact pushed him back half of a step but he did not react to it with any indication of pain, but rather annoyance. He turned his head to the source and saw two wheel mounted ballistae, much like the ones which had lined the walls of Morgund'dur. Siege weapons had been made for the inevitable day wen his good work might resume, yet it appeared that the rebels had managed to procure some for their assault.

Jon personally recognized them, for they had been his contingency for the Carrion Blades failing to open the gates.

"Reload!" Ser Narbert Grandison boomed, the image of a man who had crawled from one end of a battlefield, to the other and back again.

"Narbert, you fucking idiot!" Jon bellowed. "Get out of here!"

" _ **A friend of yours, then?**_ " Tar-Medine's smouldering gaze passed between Jon and the knights manning the ballistae.

Many of the Orcs had turned and begun to race towards the knights, but stopped as their master called out. " _ **Leave them! Butcher the dragon and keep the Gravewalker entertained.**_ "

"No! He's no friend to me!" Jon argued as the Balrog began to turn away. "Stay and face me, coward!"

" _ **And yet you care enough to protest…good, then you may watch him die. That feeble lizard isn't going anywhere in the meantime.**_ " Tar-Medine stepped away from the ring fort. " _ **Nor is my army. Patience, Gravewalker. You and I have all of eternity to settle matters between us.**_ "

Jon made to pursue, but saw the Orc ranks surging forward to all sides of the fort. Orcs began to look for a way in, some chipping away at the rock while others climbed it by hand or with assistance from their kin who boosted them up.

 _Damn you, Grandison!_

Jon worked to keep them from spilling over the top of the fortifications, moving quickly to get at the first Orc to climb up.

"Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord!" Ser Narbert cried out over the howls and laughter of Tar-Medine's legions. "Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path!"

The Knights finished reloading and launched a second barrage, which their target shrugged off. Jon attempted to dominate the minds of several Orcs so that they might hold the line for him, but they fell almost as quickly as he recruited them. Some got close enough to Sheep to since their blades in, making the dragon cry out and forcing Jon to race to his aid.

Ser Narbert's men abandoned the ballistae, but did not flee as Tar-Medine came to tower over them. The Balrog stared down in a mixture of fascination and puzzlement as men, rather than flee his approach, abandoned their weapons and walked closer to him. Long were his memories of the terror his very presence brought out in the hearts of lower beings, humanity in particular. To see the seven knights approach him while shedding their outermost armour was a foreign and surreal thing to the Balrog's eyes.

" _ **Fire worshippers. How…nostalgic.**_ " He mused. " _ **Tell me, followers of R'hllor…will your false god avail you of MY fire?**_ "

The Balrog began to flare brighter than before. Grass and trees near him were set alight at once with the effect spreading outwards. The Knights halted, raising their hands to shield their eyes before their leader carried on. They followed him with no hesitation.

"R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins." Ser Narbert was joined in his chant by his men, who removed their gauntlets and drew back their sleeves.

" _Yours is the sun that warms our days._ " They each produced a dagger and dragged it up the underside of their forearms, from wrist to elbow and repeated this on their other arm.

" _Yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night."_ They dropped their daggers and held their arms high, standing so close now that the heat radiating from Tar-Medine made their eyes water and skin redden.

"Run!" Jon tried to shout to them, driving Blackfyre through an Olog's mouth and out through the back of its skull. "Run, you fools!"

" _Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord of Light, protect us!_ " The knights pressed on even as the hairs on their heads and the beards on their faces began to smoke.

"R'hllor who gave us breath, we-" One of the knights gasped, falling to his knees as the heat overwhelmed him, setting fire to his surcoat and clothing beneath while making his armour hot to the touch.

"-we thank you!" Ser Narbert shouted, now setting foot upon burning ground as steam hissed from his opened veins. "R'hllor…who gave us the- AGH!" He choked on his scream as flames travelled up his legs. "-who gave us the day! We thank you!"

One by one the rest of his men collapsed, dead and immolated as the Stormlander Knight stood close enough that Tar-Medine cold have reached out and touched him. How he had not been burnt to ashes was beyond Jon, who was helpless to do more than man the fort and watch the Knight of Grandview's slow, agonizing demise.

"GRANDISON!" Jon screamed, driving another attacker from the walls with a kick.

He had not cared for the man as a friend. He had detested his attitude towards Northerners and other faiths, he'd had no patience for his knightly entitlement, yet Jon had not truly held any ill will towards him. The knight had not done anything, to his knowledge, that merited a fate so cruel. And Jon, unable to block any of it out, felt as powerless as the night when he'd been stabbed by his own men.

"FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK!" Ser Narbert, now a pillar of embers with his arms spread to both sides howled. "AND FULL OF TERRORS!" He let loose a wordless shriek before finally falling silent, his form crumpling just as a blackened tree fell upon him.

The Balrog looked upon this scene with satisfaction, though it was short lived. Something within the fires still stirred, something inhuman, magical…and familiar. He felt himself standing within the gaze of something infinitely his superior, something that had been ancient before he had been conceived.

" _ **No…**_ " He realized the error of his action. " _ **You…you cannot still live.**_ "

It laughed at him as it twisted the inferno of his making to its will. Every last ember was torn away from the forest, forming into many tendrils which spiralled towards a single location. At the same time, he witnessed green light coursing through the blackened ground, tracing the course of ancient Weirwood roots that spanned the entirety of Skane.

Light and fire converged upon Jon Snow's ring fort.

" _ **To them?!**_ " Tar-Medine howled. " _ **You would give your boon to them?!**_ "

Xxx

From a safe distance away this was witnessed by Melisandre, who knelt and prayed with her remaining Branded followers. Behind them, the few hundred remaining fighters of Jon's army watched in terrified silence as fire was woven and shaped like fabric by invisible hands.

"Did you know she could do this?" Tormund asked Davos.

"No." The Hand of the King shook his head, scarcely able to stop himself from grabbing the nearest weapon and driving it through the Red Priestess' heart. "No I didn't."

"R'hllor has heard our cry, brothers and sisters!" Melisandre cried. "He stands with us tonight! Go forth! Go to his champion's side! Go to Jon Snow!"

Xxx

Jon bore witness to fire twisting and slithering like a snake, carving a path through the ranks of his enemies. Many did not even have the chance to scream, with those caught directly in its path combusting in a flash and then ceasing to exist altogether. Others were set alight and had time to test the claims of the Red Faith about death by fire being a pure, cleaner death.

Beneath that, he felt the island itself pulse, like something beneath it had just awakened. This pulse was distant at first, almost easy to mistake for the pounding of his heart until he remembered that his heart beat no longer. Then it grew closer, travelling under flat plains of green grass and foothills, then winding north through the forest.

It manifested as green light which moved under the rock and earth walls towards the Sheepstealer while the flames leapt over the top…towards him.

Light and fire struck almost in unison. Jon held up a hand to shield his face before he was wreathed in the hottest fires that he had ever touched, greater than even than that wielded by the Lord of Morgund'dur. Yet for that fact, he felt no pain from it. Opening his eyes revealed to him that the fire had coiled around his outstretched arm and was sinking into his very flesh, burning away his sleeve and melting his vambrace.

And within it, he could hear something…a voice.

 _ **Snow…**_

Jon wanted to respond, to know what it was. But he could not summon the words.

 _ **You are not alone…**_

Then it was over. Jon stood atop the wall he'd struggled to hold, staring out over the same devastated landscape. Many of the loyalist orcs had fled in the face of what had just happened, leaving maybe a hundred confused and stunned survivors spread out beyond the wall and several more inside who offered no further attempts at battle, for they were more concerned with escaping the very circle they had fought so hard to breach.

Bones snapped into place and sinew was knitted back together. From within the fort came the same emerald glow that had passed Jon by. At its source, the Sheepstealer slowly rose to stand up with wings mending themselves before Jon's eyes. The dragon's more recent injuries were similarly vanishing while many of his more severe scars became faded.

The dragon unleashed a roar which would be heard all the way to the foothills in the south and far out to sea in every other direction. He then pushed through the wall of the ring fort with ease.

Tar-Medine looked upon this and saw only the end of his ambitions manifesting in broad daylight. Two different spells had been cast, two powerful rituals of blood magic had been invoked to turn the tide against him at the moment when his victory had seemed certain.

And now two revitalized enemies, a dragon and his rider, faced him at his weakest. And from the south came more: Wildlings, Skagosi, Skani, Northmen and his own traitorous servants. They fell upon his loyalists with renewed energy despite spending the past several hours in almost constant battle.

" _ **So that is it then?**_ " He whispered as he saw the last of his forces break and scatter. " _ **This was your plan? To bring me low, to make me the monster for your hero to slay for glory and recognition? Little more than a footnote to be attached to Jon Snow's story?**_ "

The Balrog brandished his axe and charged forth. " _ **So be it then!**_ " He hissed. " _ **But I shall not go quietly! I am the Lord of Morgund'dur! I shall not meekly submit to your designs!**_ "

Jon saw the Balrog's charge and drew Blackfyre, handling it with his now bare arm. Next to him, Sheep bellowed out another stream of dragon fire in challenge.

"We take him together, Sheep." Jon was met with no discernible objection. "Good. I'll give you an opening."

He warped ahead with the Fist, stopping halfway to the raging Balrog where he hung the hammer in his belt and grasped the sword of kings in both hands. Tar-Medine did not slow down at the sight of him, drawing his axe back for a swing to bat him out of the way on the way to his true target.

 _You are not alone…not alone…_

Blackfyre became wreathed in a sheath of fire as Jon dove feet first ahead, slipping in past the Balrog's guard where he cut into his ankles like before, only this time the wounds did not heal as Tar-Medine collapsed to all four with a howl. Jon warped up onto his hunched back and dragged Blackfyre up to the base of his neck where he leapt off and severed one of its horns on his way down.

Sheep was on him again before he could recover, closing his jaws around the Balrog's shoulder and flinging him to one side. The dragon, finally able to fight on equal footing, gave no quarter and pounced, latching both hind claws into Tar-Medine's chest. With a mighty beat of his wings he slowly lifted the struggling Balrog off of the ground and then dropped back down, sinking his talons in deeper as his crushing weight pressed down upon Tar-Medine's chest.

Jon, with a blade of fire in one hand and a hammer radiating an unearthly chill in the other, warped high into the air over the brawl.

 _Wait for it…_

Sheep saw through Jon's eyes what was coming, and moved aside at jut the right moment. Jon sailed down past him and sank Blackfyre into the Balrog's molten heart until only the hilt stuck out. Tar-Medine shrieked as Jon raised the Fist up with one hand and called down a new bolt lightning, feeding it down through himself and into Blackfyre.

A flash of diamond white light erupted from within Tar-Medine's chest as he gave one last cry…and then fell limp and silent. The volcanic glow within dulled and faded out of sight, leaving only a hint of light in his eyes as he drew feeble breaths.

Jon pulled Blackfyre free. "Your rule is at an end." He declared, levelling the blade at the Balrog's throat. "And it was not short enough."

A cough turned into a rattling chuckle. " _ **You…cannot conceive…of what you've…done today.**_ "

Slowly raising his head to meet Jon, the Balrog gurgled as a thick, oily substance spilled out of his mouth. _**"You…are one…**_ " His eyes lit with malicious glee. " _ **But we…are many…and the others…will avenge me.**_ "

"There are more of you?" Jon demanded.

"There always have been." The Stranger answered. "I don't know how I know but…seven. There are seven of his ilk. No more, but soon to be one less."

" _ **Ah…there is a face I remember.**_ " Tar-Medine sneered. " _ **Glâneidiron…look at how unkind death has been to you?**_ "

Jon took a step back. "You…see him?" He asked.

"You know of me?" The Stranger demanded. "Speak, and we shall ease your passing!"

" _ **So you do not remember…just as was promised.**_ " Tar-Medine let his head fall back against the ground and laughed weakly. " _ **I should have guessed…this would be your work. You…never were satisfied…with your place.**_ "

"Damn you, speak plainly!" The Stranger roared. "Who am I?!"

" _ **You…are the Old One's most devoted servant…and most treasured pet. And just like a rabid dog, you were put down for biting your master's hand. But he still possesses you, in life and death.**_ " Tar-Medine spat out a globule of the thick sludge. " _ **I only wish…that I could be there to see it. When you remember who you are…and when your precious vessel rejects you for it.**_ "

The Balrog let out another wheezing laugh as the light faded from his eyes…and then fell deathly still, a blackened carcass bereft of life and warmth.

 _Why doesn't this feel like a victory?_ Jon asked himself as Sheep raised his head and unleashed a victorious cry which was picked up by hundreds of other voices which drew closer.

Jon look to find a crowd of men and Orcs massing around the carcass.

"Tar-Medine is dead!" Grublik-Four Fingers hooted. "Let all of Skane hear this!"

"I knew you would do it, my lord!" Dûsh the Obsessed crooned.

"This means one thing…" Tarak Limp-Leg, hunched over in his saddle, looked up at Jon. "Hail Jon Snow! Hail Barhd'gul! Lord of Morgund'dur!"

"HAIL!" The Orcs chanted. "BARHD'GUL! HAIL! BARHD'GUL!"

This chant was taken up by men as well. A few at first, but soon men from Skane, Skagos, the North and Beyond the Wall were included and threw in their own variations.

"BARHD'GUL!"

"WHITE WOLF!"

"DEMONSBANE!"

But there was one name called out among it all which drew his attention.

"YOU CRAZY BASTARD!"

When Jon hopped down he was enveloped in a crushing hug by Tormund. "You!" The man growled. "You're the craziest man I've ever met, Snow!" He then laughed and set him down. "And the only one I've seen kill a real fuckin' demon!"

"I had help!" Jon nodded to Sheep, whose snout was being hugged by Rhae. "Lots of it!"

"Aye, true. Couldn't 'be done it without me." Tormund chuckled and turned to the crowd. "Oi! Quiet down! Hey! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Jon raised one hand and the crowd fell silent while every Orc fell to one knee.

"…my friends, this victory today is not mine alone." Jon said. "It belongs to you, who fought and survived. It belongs to our allies who fought and died. But most of all…it belongs to the Orcs of Morgund'dur, who are now free of Tar-Medine's tyranny. I did not come here to conquer and rule, but to liberate."

He beckoned his Captains forward. "Takra Limp-Leg, Grublik Four-Fingers and Dûsh the Obsessed. You and your warriors fought valiantly under my command. If you would agree to help forge a lasting peace with the people of Skane, I would bequeath to you what remains of Morgund'dur and its surroundings lands. They have seen scarred by Tar-Medine's rampage, but I believe that there can still be a future for your people here."

"Peace with the spiderlings in return for a wrecked fort and a scorched forest?" Takra rubbed his jaw. "…Eh, I've heard worse deals. Besides, maybe without that flamin' fuck to pit us against one another for his favour, we can stop worrying about getting knived in the night and poisoned in the day."

"We could do even more than that!" Grublik rubbed his palms together. "I've always had plans. Ideas! But he'd never approve of them. I want to tinker, I want to build, I want to invent! But most of all…I want off this island! My whole life this is all I've ever known! I want to see what's beyond these shores!"

"Ooh, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot." Dûsh grinned. "I'm not one for a…domestic lifestyle, you could say. But there are always wars out there." He drew a knife and juggled it in his hand. "And plenty of throats that need cutting. I'm sure you could think of some for me to do my work on, boss."

The thought of bringing the Orcs off of Skane…was not a comforting one. Many would be terrified and revolted by them, yet…if they could be made to follow…

"We can discuss that after we've seen to the dead and wounded." Jon said. "Takra…I've not heard you speak of wishing to leave."

"Because I don't, m'lord." Takra shook his head and was helped down from his Cazarin. "I'm older than these two. Older than most of this lot and any other Orc you'd find on this spit of rock and weeds. If you want someone to keep the peace and make something of this land, then I'll gladly serve as Overlord in your name." He bowed his head. "Many of the Captains were slain in battle. I can appoint new ones who will keep control of whoever is left. And if more of our kind were to arrive here from where ever we're brought, I'll see that they're informed of the…change in leadership."

The Stranger appeared. "He is a good choice. Reliable, experienced and with only so much ambition as one ought to have."

"Very well then." Jon nodded. "Takra Limp-Leg, I hereby name you the Lord of Mrgund'dur, to rule it in the name of both myself and King Stannis Baratheon. Rule well."

Takra smirked and held a fist to his chest. "By your command, Barhd'gul."

The Orcs murmured his title with the same reverence as before. Towards the back, Jon could see the red clad figure of Melisandre looking at him with pride in her eyes, like Catelyn Stark whenever Robb performed well at anything. But Jon felt anything but flattered by this, remembering that there was one last detail to be sorted out.

After getting the warriors to disperse, he went to where Rhae and the hooded woman were looking over Sheep, the former acting like a distressed mother hen while the latter simply rubbing the dragon's snout. Sheep was nuzzling her affectionately as best as a dragon of his size could manage without knocking her over, causing her to laugh and reciprocate.

"It's good to see you again, old friend." She said lovingly before switching to a flat tone. "What do you want, boy?"

"I have one last matter which must be addressed." Jon told her. "I need the ring."

"After what it did to you before? You really are crazy." The woman snorted.

"Snow, I'll cut off both your arms this time if you wear that fucking thing." Tormund threatened.

"I won't wear it…but I made a deal with Melisandre, and I must see it through." Jon informed them.

"No." Ser Davos shoved his way past Tormund. "You can't give it to her! She's already dangerous enough!"

"Ser Davos." Jon placed a hand on the knight's shoulder. "This is something I need to do. I swear to you…what happened in the Pit won't repeat itself. I won't let it. Not with me, or her or anyone Loe. I need you all to trust me on this."

"Well I don't, not with this." The old woman stated plainly. "And I see no reason to change that."

"Daemon asked me to give you and Rhae his love." Jon told her.

He saw her tense up under her cloak. With a shaking hand, she drew back her hood to reveal a head of long, grey hair and dark eyes which stared at him. "…what did you say?"

"…your son sends his love." Jon repeated, holding out Blackfyre and its scabbard for her to take back. "He told me about the Ring, about Tar-Medine…but he hadn't known that you still live. When he found out…he told me he knew what needed to be done and bade me to tell you on his behalf."

The woman's eyes watered. "…because he knew he'd never get the chance to say it himself." She lowered her head and wiped one sleeve across her face and clutched Blackfyre to her chest. "Daemon, you fool…my precious little fool boy…" She sucked in a breath. "…do you promise that this thing will never harm another soul?"

"I do." Jon nodded.

"Say it."

"I will not allow this ring to cause harm to another innocent."

"Good." She tore the pouch off her belt and tossed it to him.

"For gods' sakes, Jo, you can't uphold that!" Ser Davos argued. "As long as that thing exists it will corrupt anyone who sets eyes on it!"

"I know." Jon stepped past the former smuggler. "Wait for me here."

He stopped before Melisandre and her Branded.

"Have you something for me, Jon Snow?" The Red Priestess asked with a knowing smile.

"I have what you want." Jon looked to the Branded.

"Our deal stands." She reminded him. "I shall release my hold on him after you part with the enemy's gift."

"Yes…that is our deal." Jon nodded, opening the pouch. "I thought it to be a small sacrifice to save the lives of innocent men..." he tipped the ring out of the pouch and into his palm.

The whispers came again, calling to him.

 _Take it_. They told him. _She cannot stop you! Take it, and strike her down!_

Jon imagined the same gust of cool air that had struck his face atop the wall. He saw the green lands of the Gift stretching out before him, the frozen lands beyond the Wall behind him…and Ygritte by his side. The happiest moment in his life, when being a bastard or a deserter meant nothing to him for several minutes with his love at his side and the open world before them, filled with possibility.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Jon opened his eyes and the ring was still there, but nought else had changed.

"…but that was before I knew the power it holds." He unhooked the Fist of the First Men from his belt.

"You swore ahead oath." Melisandre said. "The lives of these men will remain mine to do with as I please if you renege."

"They will." Jon agreed, and dropped the ring to the ground. "For all of my life, I only ever wanted to be seen as honourable as my father. For people to hear my name and know that my word could be trusted, that my actions would serve a greater purpose than advancing myself. And yet…my father was executed as a traitor for adhering to honour, my brother discarded his when it did not suit him and clung to it when it did until it cost him his life, his wife, his child, his mother and his crown. They both forgot that honour is only what should be, not what is…or what must be."

He jabbed a finger towards the ring. "And this thing _must_ be destroyed. It will bend minds and hearts of any near it into coveting it at any cost. Kin will slay kin, servant will betray lord and King, wars will be fought and thousands will suffer and die so that one or another may bear it. If the lives of these men and my honour are the price to pay for keeping it from reaping greater destruction, then so be it!"

Jon brought the Fist down. Wood crumpled and and something shrieked as a mist escaped from beneath the hammer's head, rising upwards only to dissipate into nothing. When Jon removed the Fist he saw the crushed remains of the weirwood ring slowly rotting away until nothing was left of it.

Melisandre's face was unreadable, and Jon spared her not a moment more before storming back towards his companions. Davos had hung off to the side and listened to the exchange up to this point, only choosing now to step in.

"Did your god tell you that would happen?" He asked.

She raised one hand, and the marks upon her Branded flowed a violent red. Ser Davos looked away, ashamed for any satisfaction he'd felt a moment ago. But when he looked again he saw them all still standing…with their faces unmarred. The sailors and soldiers looked around until one saw Davos.

"Ser Davos? How…where are we?" The man asked.

"You don't remember?" Davos replied.

"I was…on the ship, the _Steffon_." Another sailor recounted. "…how long ago was that?"

Davos rounded on the priestess said she walked away. "What is this?" He asked. "Is this another part of your game?"

"It is no game, Ser Davos. My lord's will was quite clear." She stopped and looked back at him. "I told you before that I had been chastised for my blind zealotry. But he told me something of much greater value: three signs of his chosen champion. The first would be his birth following the bleeding star and the gathering darkness…or rather, his rebirth. The second, like before, would be his awakening of dragons from stone."

She looked towards the Sheepstealer. "Did you know that Skane, in the old tongue, means 'pebble'? Or that legends of the stoneborn speak of Father Skagos and Mother Skane once being a single island?"

"And the third?" Davos asked, waiting to hear what detail she'd tailored to fit her agenda.

"…that he would sacrifice honour for duty, and prove that he is the one who shall lead against the forces of the Great Other." Melisandre stared at the black clad form issuing orders to man and Orc alike. "I was wrong, Ser Davos; wrong about Stannis, about everything. Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn. He is the Prince-who-is-Promised."

Xxx

Taken from a Sindarin dictionary

Tol = Island or Isle

Dìnen = Silent

Tol Dìnen = Silent Isle

Glâneidiron: Taken from the Sindarin word for bright and the non-canon Sindarin word for usurper or supplanter (as it seems no canon definition exists, though I've been wrong before. PM me you have it.)

Clarification: If anybody feels that Tar-Medine's decision to abandon killing Jon to kill Grandison was unwarranted, consider his thought-process at the time. He knew that Jon would likely dodge or counter with the Fist as he'd done multiple times before, and that at best Jon unleash its powers to continue keeping Sheep secure. So when he saw how Jon fretted over Ser Narbert and his men, he basically thought the following.

'Alright, either option A: he follows after me and abandons the dragon, my army kills the dragon and I finish him off myself. Or option B: he stays there, my army keeps him busy, and I get the pleasure of forcing him to watch his comrades die…and THEN I go back to kill the dragon anyways. That'll leave me plenty of spare time to go get my ring back without a Gravewalker or dragon to get in the way. Barring some deus ex machina pageantry bull shit, my odds of winning are good either way! This whole morning has been the worst for me in a long time, but maybe I can make it end on a high note and finally get that Kingdom I've always wanted up and running! Yep, it's a good day to be me.'

And let's face it…Lord of the Rings villains are always undone by their own arrogance much like Game of Thrones 'heroes' as we perceive them are undone by trying to do the right thing.


End file.
